Hereafter
by Rhianna-Aurora
Summary: Captain Swan, AU. Killian Jones is a young priest with a haunted past. Emma Swan is a woman just as broken as he is, who dreamed of a man who might someday be her salvation ... or damnation. Officially rated M now.
1. In The Beginning

**A/N:** A little disclaimer, before you get to the fic. It is a priest!Killian AU, and it will be rated M in future chapters. I'm telling you this so you know that if this is something you won't be comfortable with, you might not want to read this one. There is also mention of drug use. It's a gritty, angsty fic, and I'm letting you know right now what you're in for.

I am not writing this to be offensive in any way, shape, or form. The reason that I so love the idea of priest AUs for CS is because I think that Killian as a priest and an Emma who has reached the lowest point in her life is VERY TRUE to their canon characters. Life was cruel to them, both in canon, and in these AUs, and it led them down paths they may not have chosen for themselves otherwise.

This is not about mocking religion or making fun of anyone's set of beliefs. It's about two broken people, who - no matter what situation you put them in, AU, canon, or otherwise - will always find a way to be with each other.

With that in mind, I hope you like this.

_**One**_**  
In the Beginning ...**

_If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing._

_1 Corinthians 13:1-3_

Killian had seen her from a distance at the group sessions he oversaw every Wednesday night. She never said anything, always sitting in the back, arms curled around herself. She flinched at the slightest noises, and was constantly biting her nails, and of all the people who came and went to these sessions, she was the one he was most intrigued - no, _concerned_, he told himself - with.

But it was more than concern that made him watch her. She'd show up late to each session, and tuck herself into the back row, eyes wide as she listened to everyone else's stories, never offering her own. He didn't even know what her name was, but he'd taken to calling her "the swan girl" in his head, because of the pendant she wore around her neck, and then, after a few weeks had gone by, he'd shortened that to simply "Swan".

She was lovely enough that the name was befitting, but she was so lost. He could see that sadness in her eyes, that one that all his years working in the capacity that he did, he'd seen a lot of. She'd been abandoned. Broken. Beaten down. And now ... well. She was _here_. Which pretty much said it all.

If he was being honest, it wasn't just his work that led him to know these things about her. He could see the perdition in her eyes, because he saw it reflecting back at him, every time he looked in the mirror.

And if he was being _brutally _honest ... he was probably the most lost soul of them all. He had spent ten years trying to fill a void ... a void of his own causing, and all he felt, every single second of every single day, was _empty_. He had nothing to look forward to, no hope, no light. He couldn't seek solace in the bottle any longer, so he'd turned to God.

Yet something was still missing, and he figured it was just his lot in life. He was fundamentally broken. He couldn't _be _fixed, and he likely didn't deserve to be. Not after what he'd done. He wouldn't even make it to that heaven he tried to pave the way for everyone else to get to. But he _could _help others get there. And for awhile, he'd managed to convince himself that it was enough. This was his atonement for all he had wrought in his past, after all.

But then she'd come to one of the meetings ... and all it had taken was one look to know that there was something there, something ... kindred about her.

The first time he spoke to her, it was after she'd been coming to the sessions for over a month. He happened to be pouring himself a cup of coffee - which he detested, but by now, it was a habit he couldn't kick - into a little styrofoam cup when she approached the table. She was chewing nervously on her thumbnail, looking around as though she expected to be attacked at any moment.

"If I might make a suggestion, love, perhaps you want to stick to the decaf," he couldn't resist, giving her a good-natured smile as she finally turned her eyes on him. He saw her expression change, only briefly, but it was enough to make his own brow furrow. There was a flicker of ... familiarity? ... behind her sea-colored eyes, though he was certain they'd never met before. Though up close, looking into her eyes, even just briefly - it was enough to convince him that he'd been right about her. She was more than just broken, though. She was shattered.

Just like him.

"Haha, funny," she said, recovering from whatever had given her pause, speaking without a hint of amusement in her voice, her smile tight and annoyed. She pushed past him a little, her hands shaking as she got her own little paper cup of coffee and brought it to her lips. She looked up at him again then, and he realized he'd been staring.

How did a girl as lovely as this one end up in this situation? True, you could tell she'd been through her fair share of the flames, from the dark smudges under her eyes, the obvious marks on her arms ... they were fading, of course, but the extent of them let him know just how long she'd been in it. But underneath all that, there was a quietly beautiful young woman ... far too young to be so broken and bitter.

"Did you need something?" she asked tightly, giving him an expectant, irritated "what?" look.

"No, forgive me, I didn't mean to stare," he said, shaking his head and raising his own coffee too his lips. God, how he hated the stuff. He would prefer something stronger; there were days he'd prefer to drown himself in it, to meet his end at last. But something always pulled him back from that edge, though God only knew what that something was.

It certainly wasn't Providence, for Providence cared nothing for Killian Jones.

"Whatever, everyone does it," she muttered, rolling her eyes and turning to walk away.

"I'm Father Jones," he said then, in an effort to keep her there a little bit longer. He honestly didn't know why. Maybe it had just been too long since he'd really connected with anyone. And he felt like he could connect with her. "Most people just call me Killian, though."

She turned back around, her brow creased. "I don't think I'll be calling you anything," she said blandly, but there it was again, that flicker behind her eyes. Something about him seemed to unease her, though he couldn't quite figure out why that would be so. She turned again to go, sighing heavily. "This coffee tastes like shit," she told him before she walked away.

He couldn't say he disagreed with her, and for the first time in a very long while, he felt the beginnings of a _genuine _smile quirking the corners of his lips. He was good at the fake smiles, the ones that didn't quite reach his eyes, but nevertheless convinced people that you were all right enough not to bother further. He was an expert at making people believe he wasn't drowning.

But speaking to her ... even briefly, even when she had no interest in speaking to him ... it had been the first time since that night ten years ago that he felt like his head had broken the surface of the water at last.

She didn't return for the next session, or the one after that. After three weeks had passed with her absence, his concern had become a legitimate fear for her well-being. He hadn't only been imagining that defeated look to her, he knew that whatever had spun her life into despair - the way it so obviously had - was going to be a demon she fought with every day. He knew it because he lived it. But he had no idea how to go about finding her, though. He didn't even know her name.

As luck would have it - or perhaps it was divine intervention; later on, when he reflected on this moment, he would never be quite sure whether it was a blessing or curse that led him to her that night - he happened to see Sister Astrid on his way out of the building. Astrid was one of the nuns who helped with the group sessions, and she was also one of the few people he'd ever seen his ever-elusive Swan girl speak to.

"Do you have a moment?" he asked her, holding the door for her and gesturing for her to go on ahead.

"Of course, Father," Astrid said with her usual bright smile. "Something the matter?"

"No, no, nothing like that," he said, smiling quickly, easily at her to reassure her. He was good at that, the fake smiles that didn't quite meet his eyes. "At least, I certainly hope not. I was ... concerned, though. There is a young lady who used to come to these sessions ... I've not seen her for nearly a month though. I was simply wondering ... "

"You mean Emma?" Astrid said, brow creasing.

Emma. Her name was Emma.

"Er, well, is that her name?" he asked, suddenly feeling a bit daft for this whole endeavor.

"Blonde girl, real thin, always looks nervous?"

"Aye, that one," he conceded with a nod.

Astrid sighed. "I don't know why she hasn't been coming ... to be honest, I don't know why she came for as long as she did. She didn't seem to be getting much out of it. I've been a bit worried, myself, to tell the truth.""

"Has anyone gone to check on the lass?" he asked.

Astrid shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe one of the volunteers has ... but I don't think she had any friends here. I just know she lives down by the river in that rather rundown complex. Not really a good place for someone like her, considering that it's notorious for ... well. The very things she's trying to get away from."

He knew the place of which Astrid was speaking, and he was slightly appalled to think of anyone ... let alone Em - _Swan_, he reproached himself - living there. "Well," he said, clearing his throat. "Perhaps I'll send someone down that way to check on her."

Perhaps he'd go himself.

Astrid nodded. "I would do it, but I'm running late for an appointment, as it is. Take care, Father. Let me know what you find out, okay?"

As soon as he'd hailed a cab and given the driver his directions, he immediately began to wonder if he was doing the right thing. This went above and beyond the call of his duties ... she wasn't a member of the Church, and as far as he was aware, she came to the meetings of her own volition, not because of a court order.

There was absolutely zero reason he should be going to this girl's apartment right now. Or ever.

And yet here he found himself, outside the ramshackle complex, staring up at the buiding that was covered in ivy and looked to be on the verge of collapse, and wondering which door was hers.

He supposed he couldn't just go knocking on every door til he found her.

With a sigh, he shook his head. "This was a stupid idea," he muttered to himself, turning to go and nearly running over ...

Her.

"Watch where you're fucking going," she snapped, then froze, her eyes widening in shock when she looked up into his face, recognition dawning. "What the hell are _you _doing here?"

"I ... " He was at a loss. What _was _he doing here? Christ, this was absurd. "Forgive me, I was simply ... "

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, Jesus, look, just come inside before we get mugged, you can flounder for an excuse once we're behind locked doors, how's that?"

She didn't give him much of a chance to protest, she just took off toward the building, leaving him to either stand outside like an idiot, or follow her.

Like an idiot.

"Do you want anything?" she asked once they were inside, leaning back against the door heavily after she threw the deadbolt. Even though it was very apparent that she didn't want him there, she was also seemingly determined to be gracious. Which was admirable, he supposed.

Or he did, until she pushed away from the door and removed her jacket, draping it over the back of one of her chairs. Underneath, she wore a thin white sweater, and through the material, he could see the dark outline of ...

Jesus, what was he _doing _here?

She turned to face him, her expression expectant, and he realized she'd asked him, again, if there was anything he wanted. "Whatever you have is fine," he mumbled quickly with a dismissive wave of his hand, finding that he couldn't look in her direction at the moment.

Emma rolled her eyes, sighing heavily. "I'll make you a decent cup of coffee, how's that? Then you can lecture me, and then you can go." She fixed him with a smile, but it was sarcastic, and it didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm not here to lecture you," he told her. He didn't know why he was there, but he knew it wasn't for _that _reason.

God, was he so desperately alone that even _this _was an appealing alternative to another night spent alone back at the rectory?

"Sure you're not," she said dryly. "You're a priest. You're all pretty much the same, you men of the cloth. Holier than thou, thinking you have to _save _everybody ... "

Killian's brows raised at that. "Sounds like you speak from experience."

Her eyes met his then, her expression cool. "I know enough," she said, shrugging simply, hugging her arms around herself then. "I'll be back in a minute with the coffee. Just have a seat or whatever."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked, feeling awkward and out of his element, completely, and wondering for the eighty-eighth time what the hell he was doing there.

"No!" she said quickly ... too quickly. "No," she said then, quieter, shaking her head. "Just ... stay put, all right?" She disappeared down the narrow hallway before he could protest, and he found himself alone in her living room.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting of her living quarters, but the small, cozy little bohemian-styled apartment was not it. The age of the building showed, of course, but she had done a good job hiding it with bright fabrics and an eclectic mish-mash of furniture. It was also clean ... almost obsessively so. The only indication that she actually spent time here were the tiny foil wrappers he saw strewn about one of her endtables.

Chocolate. To help with the cravings.

His brow furrowed as he caught sight of a leatherbound book. At first, he thought it was a journal, and he was prepared to leave it alone ... until he caught the corner of one of the pieces of paper sticking out of the book, and realized it was a sketchpad.

He glanced over his shoulder, making sure she wasn't behind him, before carefully picking up the rest of the sketchpad, opening it slowly. He knew this was crossing a line, but there was a part of him that was desperate to know more about this girl - this woman - who had stirred something in him that hadn't been stirred in over ten years.

The first pages were full of sketches of every day things ... there was a very nice one of a cathedral, and Killian was impressed with Emma's attention to detail, even in a simple, quick pencil sketch such as that one. She had a way of shadowing her drawings - you could see the way the light reflected off the rose window, even in black and white.

He flipped through the pages, more simple things, the park, birds, flowers. One page made him stop, a pair of clasped hands, a ribbon winding around their wrists. Handfasting, he knew. His brow furrowed, wondering at that briefly before flipping to the next page.

He inhaled sharply then. On the page in front of him was ... _him_. A few details were different - the hair was messier, almost as though it were windblown, and the scruff along his jaw was a bit more present than he typically allowed it to get. His eyes seemed to be lined, and he was wearing what Killian could only describe as pirate attire.

But aside from those few - _absurd _- details ... everything else was dead-on accurate. There was no mistaking that the man in these drawings was him. She had every detail, every little quirk of his represented in this quick sketch. It was uncanny. It was ... well. _Unsettling _was putting it mildly.

He quickly flipped to the next page - it was another one, and further page turns revealed that the rest of the sketchbook, in its entirety, was drawings of him. "Holy shit," he exhaled shakily, the book falling from his hands, pages scattering everywhere.

Now, more than ever, he was certain he shouldn't be here. He turned, prepared to head for the door, and take his chances with the muggers that she had insisted were out there, but when he turned around, she was standing behind him, two cups of coffee in her hands, and a confused expression on her face.

"What are you _doing_?" she asked him, her voice snapping angrily as she set down the cups on her coffeetable and knelt down to gather up the drawings on the floor. "God, do they not teach you about personal fucking property in seminary school or what?"

"That's rich, coming from the stalker," Killian retorted shortly, not really sure what to do with the emotions he was feeling. His heart was racing, and he wasn't sure if it was because he was terrified or beyond intrigued by this woman ... and the fact that he wasn't immediately running for the door was a _problem_. God, he was more fucked up than he'd known, wasn't he?

Her head shot up, an incredulous expression on her face. "Save it, princess," she snapped. "I'm not a fucking stalker."

He arched a brow at her, casting his eyes back to the sketches on the floor.

She stood back up, clutching the papers to her, her eyes snapping blue-green fire at him. "I don't have to explain myself to you," she said. "It's a free country, I can draw whatever the hell I want. You're the one who was poking around where you had no business!" Nevertheless, her hands were shaking as she thrust a few of the papers out to him. "But did you even happen to look at the _dates_?" She shook the papers at him, urging him to take them from her.

He looked at her warily, the bigger part of his brain screaming at him to get out of there, now. But there was a look in her eyes, and he found that he couldn't easily walk away from it. Begrudgingly, he reached out, taking the papers from her and looking down in the bottom corner of the page. His forehead creased, his eyes flickering from the page to her face, then back. "That's not possible," he said. "That date is _ten years _ago."

"You think I don't realize that?" Emma said, teeth gritted angrily. "Why do you think I _stopped _coming to those stupid meetings after we met?"

Killian frowned, looking up at her. "Because of this?" He held up the papers.

"I'd seen you at the meetings before, obviously," Emma said, "I mean, you've always been there."

"I kind of run them," he said drolly. She gave him a look, to which he rolled his eyes slightly. "I'm sorry. Continue," he said, sighing to himself.

"It wasn't til that last meeting I went to that I'd actually seen you ... up close." She shook her head. "I came right back here after that meeting and dug this out - it's my old sketchbook, from high school. I had sort of half-convinced myself that I was hallucinating or making shit up again ... wouldn't be the first time. But then I flipped to the pages and ... "

"That's a lovely tale," Killian interjected once again, eyebrows raised as he looked at her. "But _how_?"

"I don't know," she said simply, shrugging. "I just ... " She blew out a breath. "I've had the same dream for as long as I can remember ... ever since things started getting really shitty in my life ... there was always this one dream. And he ... you ... whatever. Always there. Every time. So I finally started drawing what I dreamed. There was something ... comforting about it." She hugged her arms around herself again. "But now it's just really freaking me out."

He should be leaving and never looking back. Whether he believed her story or not, it flew in the face of everything he'd ever known. He should want nothing further to do with her, he shouldn't have come here in the first place ... but he had. And he couldn't just walk away now.

"Why did you even start coming to the sessions in the first place?" he asked her then, knowing immediately after he spoke that it was out of left field, but finding himself curious nonetheless.

Emma didn't answer, instead focusing on gathering up the rest of her sketches and placing them carefully back in the book. "No offense, Father, but I don't really want to talk about it," she mumbled. She set the book down on the endtable, and reached for her cup of coffee. Her hands were shaking, he noted, and she ended up knocking the cup over, spilling hot coffee on the front of her jeans. "Shit," she muttered, looking around for something to clean up the mess.

Killian immediately reached into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it to her. "Here," he said gently, his hand brushing hers as he handed her the fabric.

Her eyes flickered up briefly, meeting his own. Their gazes held for the barest of moments, their hands still touching, before she shook her head, pressing the handkerchief back into his hand. "It's fine, I've got towels in the kitchen, the coffee would ruin that."

"I do have others," he said, flashing her a quick, genuine smile.

Emma blinked a bit as she looked at him, before shaking her head. "I said it's _fine_," she muttered snappishly then, standing back up and going into the kitchen. She came back with a roll of paper towels and a rag and set to work cleaning up the spill. "Why are you here?" she asked him without looking up at him.

"You stopped coming, and I wasn't sure why," he said matter-of-factly. "There had to have been a reason ... I understand now," he nodded in the direction of her sketchbook, "but I'm still confused as to what brought you there in the first place. It wasn't mandated, I didn't see your name on the list."

"I already said I don't want to talk about it," Emma said bluntly, standing up. "And why does it even matter? Do you go by everyone's place who doesn't show up for group therapy?"

Killian didn't say anything to that. What could he say? She had a point. Even he didn't know what he was doing there. The excuse he'd come up with before seemed flimsy now, when the truth was simply that he'd gotten used to seeing her face, had looked forward to it, even, and when she'd stopped coming around, he had felt it, acutely.

And that in and of itself was a problem, and not one he should be encouraging like this.

"Didn't think so," Emma said when he didn't answer, and her expression was unreadable to him in that moment. Her eyes were searching his face, and he knew it because his were searching hers.

He hadn't been wrong about her. There was deep pain behind her eyes, a soul-deep loss that she still felt in her bones. He saw it because it mirrored his own.

"I came to the meetings for my son," she finally said, swallowing thickly. "His father ... " She trailed off, her expression growing dark. "Never mind that he's the reason for ... " She shook her head. "No, that's ... wrong. I know we're not supposed to blame others for our own failings, right, Father?"

She sighed heavily, moving to sit on the sofa. As though moving of their own volition, his own legs led him to sit down beside her, close enough that he could feel her trembling, ever-so-slightly, but not close enough that they were actually touching.

Emma looked over at him, her brow furrowed. "If ... I talk to you here, is it like confession?" she asked him.

"If you like," he said, his voice quiet. "I won't tell anyone anything you say to me, if that's what you mean. And maybe I can help."

"Why would you want to help me?" Emma asked, smiling sardonically at that. "I'm a stranger who has creepy prophetic dreams and pictures of you."

Killian laughed at that, he couldn't help it. The sound was foreign to his own ears ... how long had it been since he'd last laughed? "Who knows?" he said simply, offering her another smile. "Maybe someday you'll return the favor."

"What kind of help could a recovering heroin addict be to a man of God?" Emma asked, widening her eyes a little at him, the faintest hint of smile quirking the corners of her lips.

His heart gave a funny little flutter, and he tried to ignore it ... but when was the last time he'd felt _that_? "I think you might be selling yourself short, love," he said, keeping his tone light. "Even priests need friends."

"But why would you want _me_?" She seemed genuinely taken aback by the notion. "I'm not anybody's idea of a good friend."

"That was before you met me," he said, finding that it was growing steadily easier to talk to her now.

Emma gave him a look. "You're a very strange man, Father Jones," she said.

"It's Killian, actually," he said quickly. "I'm only Father Jones in the Church."

She bit her bottom lip, looking up at him with a thoughtful expression. "There's a custody hearing soon," she finally said after a long moment of contemplation. "And my ex and his ... his wife," she said the word with no small amount of disdain, "they want to prove that I'm not fit to be Henry's mother." She looked down. "I'm trying to prove that I am. I haven't even ... it's been almost two years now that I've been ... clean, and I've done all my programs and everything ... I just thought that a ... a little more couldn't hurt, right? I mean ... I've got to do _something_. Right now, I'm not even allowed to see him unsupervised." Her voice shook a little then. "I'm his _mother _and I can't even visit him without some court-approved lackey tagging along. And I know ... I know it's my fault, but it still sucks."

He hadn't realized he'd reached for her hand until he felt the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. Her head shot up, her expression confused. "Is this all part of the services offered by the Church?" she asked drolly, arching a brow at him. "I'm starting to see why you guys get in so much trouble."

He made a face at her, pulling his hand back and pushing his fingers through his hair, trying to reconcile himself with the suddenly rapid pounding of his heart. "Very funny," he muttered. "I was just ... "

"Don't worry about it," Emma said with a tentative smile. "It's okay. I didn't mind it. It was kinda nice, actually. Sorta felt like somebody actually gave a damn."

"Somebody does," he told her earnestly. He shouldn't have said it, he shouldn't even still be here. But he felt lighter here, somehow, despite everything. He felt like he was breathing, truly breathing, for the first time in a decade.

"I almost believe you mean that," Emma said softly, her eyes flickering to his briefly.

"I do mean it," he told her seriously. "I want you to start coming back to the meetings, all right? Sod the pictures," he gestured at her sketchpad, "maybe it's all just a sign from God that I'm to help you. And I will help you, Emma," he said, his voice full of conviction then. "I swear it."

Emma blinked a little as she looked at him, a sad smile on her lips. "Well, why the hell not?" she finally said, shaking her head. "I mean, you certainly won't be the _worst _choice of friend I've ever had."

"That's very flattering," Killian deadpanned.

Emma shrugged, giving him a crooked half-smile. "Get used to it. I'm not here to make the little priest feel better about himself."

"Little?" he scoffed. "No need to worry about my ego when you're around, lass."

"You can leave at any time," she said, nodding toward the door. "Besides, priests are supposed to be humble, right? I'm just here to keep you honest." She leaned a little bit closer to him and he felt his breath catch in his throat.

She was beautiful, in a haunting, heartbreaking way, and it made it hard for him to breathe.

"I should go," he said then, slowly getting to his feet.

Emma looked up at him, brow furrowing. "Right," she said slowly. "I suppose it is late. And this is ... well, isn't this pretty scandalous?"

Killian laughed a little, shaking his head as he looked at her. "We're allowed to have friends, you know. And make housecalls for those in need. Perhaps you should brush up on your knowledge of us men of the cloth." He gave her wink, and she rolled her eyes. "Next meeting?" he said then, his expression going serious.

"I ... " Emma began, then sighed. "Yeah," she finally said. "I'll be there."

"Because if you're not ... I know where you live," he said, widening his eyes at her.

"And you called _me _a stalker," she retorted.

"It's not stalking if it's in the name of God," Killian said, keeping his tone completely serious, though he could feel the smile that threatened his lips. God, when was the last time anything had been this ... simple?

Better not think about that.

"That's not creepy at all. Stalker," Emma said, a small grin on her own lips. She stood up then to walk with him to the door. "Thanks," she said, placing her hand on the doorknob before he could reach for it. "It's been a long time since I've had anyone to talk to."

He resisted the sudden urge he had, to reach out and touch her face, just to see if the skin was a soft as it looked. He knew it would be, and that was precisely why he kept his hands at his sides. "Goodnight, Emma," he said then, nodding once at her.

He pretended not to see the flicker of disappointment that crossed her features, pretended he didn't feel a little bit of that himself, as she moved her hand from the door and allowed him to leave.

"This is madness," he breathed to himself once he was back outside.

It was sheer folly, whatever it was that had brought him here tonight, sheer folly that had kept him here for as long as he'd stayed, and it was madness that he even entertained the idea of seeing her again ...

In the morning, he was sure he'd regret it, but for now, he just didn't care.

Tonight he might actually have peace.

_And God said, "Let there be light." And there was light._

_Genesis 1:3_

To be Continued ...


	2. On Earth as it is in Heaven

**A/N: **Well, here's the next part. Initially, I thought this was going to be a one-shot, then it went up to three, then five ... and now I just don't even know. It's becoming quite it's own thing at this point, and I have no idea how many chapters it's going to take me to get to the endpoint I have in mind. So anyway, I hope, if you're reading this, you'll enjoy the ride as much as I am enjoying writing this.

For the couple of people who have expressed curiosity about Emma's dreams in this fic ... they have something to do with a later point in the story, but at this point, I'm using them as a way to sort of tie the show canon into this AU. Stay tuned there, though ... ;)

_**Two  
**_**On Earth as it is in Heaven ...**

_Hatred stirs up strife, but love covers all offenses._

_Proverbs 10:12_

"One or the other, Swan, I can't give you both." Her boss' tone was firm, but not unkind, and his eyes held a sparkle of good nature that Emma had come to know well over the past couple of years.

The Lonely Huntsman Grill and Bar had been Emma's place of employment for the past two years. The owner-slash-manager, Graham Humbert, had been kind to her, and had given her a job when everyone else took one look at her and her background and all but laughed in her face. Not Graham, though. He'd been a good friend, or he'd tried to be, but Emma had a hard time letting people in. Even the nice ones.

_Especially _the nice ones.

Emma sighed heavily, frowning in discontent as she leaned on the bar. "Why not?" she implored. "I can work the lunch shift on Wednesday, but I gotta be off by four, and I _never _ask for time off."

"Except for the fact that you also want Saturday off. All day," Graham pointed out in deadpan.

"It's the one day I get to see my kid this month!" Emma protested.

"And I understand that, and I'm more than happy to have Ruby cover your shift Saturday. But Wednesday ... " He looked at her closely. "I thought you were done with whatever you had going on on Wednesday nights."

Emma shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, it came back up," she mumbled almost incoherently.

"You totally met someone didn't you?" Ruby's voice now, from behind her. Emma sighed again before turning around to face her co-worker and sort-of friend.

"I didn't!" she protested, maybe a little too quickly.

"Uh-huh," Ruby said, with a knowing wink at Graham. "I know that face, that's the 'I've got my eyes on someone' face."

"_Did _you meet someone?" Graham asked, his expression suddenly earnest.

Emma rolled her eyes. "No!" she repeated adamantly. "There is no somebody, I just have a thing I have to do on Wednesday nights and I need it off."

"A thing to do?" Ruby teased. "That what we're calling it these days?"

"Stop helping," Emma snapped, narrowing her eyes at the brunette. She turned back to Graham. "There's no guy, there's nothing shady or sketchy going on, I just _really _need Wednesday night off. That's all."

"And all day Saturday," he reminded her.

"Well, yeah, but ... come on, you're really gonna deny me the chance to see my kid?"

"No, no I'm not," Graham said. "But you have to work Wednesday, Emma, I'm sorry."

He didn't really sound all that sorry, and Emma had to wonder about that ... had what Ruby said gotten to him? He'd made it no secret that he cared about her, but Emma wasn't about to jeopardize a friendship - and the one job she'd been able to find - by getting involved with her boss. She didn't even really think about him like that. Sure he was handsome and sweet and he'd been good to her ... but it was going to take more than that to make Emma Swan want to open up her heart that wide again to anyone else.

"Graham, please," she said then, one last-ditch effort to salvage this thing. "It's for my kid, okay? It's something I gotta do for him."

Graham sighed heavily. "I can try and have you out of here by eight, does that work?" he said after a long moment of contemplation.

The meetings were usually about half-over by eight ... but that was better than not showing up at all. She really didn't want to run the risk of Kil - Father Jones, she corrected herself quickly - showing back up at her apartment again.

That had been a little _too _weird, even for her.

Though the idea of seeing him again at all filled her with its own sort of dread. There was something very disconcerting about meeting, in the flesh, someone who was the very image of someone you'd been dreaming about for as long as you could remember. She'd chalk it down as an extreme coincidence, but she didn't really believe in coincidences ... not like that.

Honestly the wiser idea would be to avoid the meetings and just refuse to answer the door if he came knocking. It's what she _should _do. But Emma Swan had never been very good at doing the things she should. And she'd be lying if she said she wasn't ... intrigued by him. To say the least. Drawn to him, if she was being honest. There was something there, something she just hadn't felt with anyone before, and she was just stupid enough, just glutton for punishment enough, to want to figure out what it was.

"Emma?" Graham's voice brought her back to the present then and her head snapped up.

"What? I'm sorry, did you say something?"

He gave her a look. "I _said _I could try to have you out of here by eight on Wednesday, does that work?" he repeated, slowly.

Emma made a face. "Oh, right," she said then, nodding. "I suppose if it's the best that can be done, it'll have to do."

"That's very kind of you," Graham said dryly.

Emma shrugged. "You act like I asked for the entire _month _off," she muttered irritably as she moved around the corner of the bar, grabbing her apron off the corner and tying it around her waist as she went. "You know I don't plan on being here forever, right?" she asked him. "Whatever are you going to do when I _leave_?"

Graham looked like he wanted to say something, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it just as quickly, shaking his head. "Get to work," he said then, nodding in the direction of one of the corner booths. "Table eight needs busing."

He was definitely irritated, and for a minute, Emma considered pressing him about it, seeing if he'd talk to her. But then she realized that she might not actually want to know. All it would do would be to add another layer of guilt on her, and she already had plenty of that.

He thought he knew her, but there were things that she wouldn't share with anyone. She knew the kind of man Graham was, he still believed in his own personal, happily-ever after, and he deserved it, more than just about anyone she knew.

But it wasn't her. Emma couldn't offer happily-ever-after to _anyone_.

Least of all herself.

She should have known that it was going to be a bad day by the dream she had Tuesday night.

_He _was there again ... it was the first time she'd seen him in her dreams - the dashing pirate version, anyway - since she'd met _him _in reality. But this time, in the dream, he wasn't alone. _She _was with him. Or at least, someone who might've been her in another life. The dreams never made much sense to her, they were just objects and flashes and faces and feelings.

There were clouds in this dream, which was strange, because usually she dreamt of the water when she dreamt of her pirate, but not this time. This time they seemed to be ... climbing. She couldn't tell what, but she knew, from the feelings invoked in the dream, that this was the _beginning _of something. The first chapter of a story ... the first step of a journey ...

But there was a shadow in the corner of her thoughts, ever-looming over the dream, no matter how bright the day seemed to be. The shadow promised that whatever the journey, whatever the story ... it would not be an easy one.

The moment she awoke, she reached, almost blindly, for her sketchpad and pencil that she kept by her bed, quickly sketching out the barest memories from the dream ... the climb, and him ... and him with _her_. She'd never been with him before in the dreams. She could only assume it meant something was changing.

But would it be a change for good or bad? Dreaming of him had heralded so many things in her life, things that had _changed _her life. Was he a portent of doom for things yet to come?

Or was he leading her to salvation?

She fell asleep again with the sketchpad still in her fingers, and she didn't dream at all this time.

She really _shouldn't _have been surprised when Wednesday became the day from hell. Graham was in a _bad _mood the entire time she was there, and Emma just was not in the mood to deal with it, especially considering how busy they were. Busier than they should've been on a Wednesday night, that was for sure. Emma spent far too long getting talked down to by the customers, and berated when the kitchen messed up orders, and shew as about read to snap by eight o'clock. The only thing keeping her going was knowing that she would be leaving soon. She had never looked forward to the stupid meetings before ... but she was looking forward to tonight, though she would have denied it had anyone asked.

Again, she really shouldn't have been surprised when that fell through for her, too. Ashley was _supposed _to be in at eight to relieve Emma and finish out her shift, but by 8:30, she still wasn't there.

It was close to nine when one customer, far too drunk for as early in the evening as it was, spilled his beer all down the front of Emma. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, trying her best to breathe deeply. Ruby walked past her at just that moment, and Emma grabbed her by the arm. "I'm leaving," she said in a very quiet, very even voice. "I was supposed to be out of here an _hour _ago, I've already missed my ... appointment and at this point, I don't even care if I get fired."

"Go," Ruby said with a sympathetic smile. "I got it covered, and Ashley just walked in. Get out of here. Maybe you can still salvage your ... _appointment_." She gave Emma a knowing look.

Emma sighed. "For the last time, it is _not _that kind of appointment," she muttered under her breath, setting her tray down on the corner of the bar and moving to the back room, taking off her apron as she left. Graham barely acknowledged her as she left, and that was fine, whatever wwas up his butt was _his _problem, not hers.

She caught a cab and started to give the driver the address to the meeting, before she realized that she looked and smelled like someone who'd been working in a bar for the past eight hours. She knew it shouldn't matter, but it did, to her. She sank back in the seat and gave the driver her own address instead.

As soon as she was inside, she kicked off her shoes, sighing heavily at the relief that followed. Her legs were aching from being on her feet all day, and she smelled like a frigging brewery. There was a time, not that long ago, that days like today wouldn't have even fazed her ... she wouldn't have been lucid enough to even register what was happening. She supposed going through life bright-eyed and clear-minded was preferable ... but God, sometimes it really sucked.

It was probably for the better, though. The more she thought about it, the more she was able to convince herself of the fact. She hadn't gone to the meeting, like she'd said she would, which meant she really couldn't just show back up next week without looking stupid. With any luck, Kil - _Father Jones _- would just write her off as a lost cause, and he wouldn't bother with her any more. Just like everyone else in her life.

She preferred it that way.

At least, that's what she told herself, before her mind wandered, and she couldn't help but think on what would become of her dreams. She'd dreamed of him long before she knew him ... she supposed there was no reason to think they'd stop now. Though it would be different ... she knew he was a real person, someone who really existed in the same world as her. He wasn't just some dream she kept having.

It would be better if he was.

Emma sighed, shaking her head as if to dislodge the troublesome thoughts. It was over, it was done with. She wasn't going to see him again, and that was that. Whatever kindness he had shown her the other night would have to be just that ... one night's kindness in her otherwise miserable existence. Whatever he'd stirred in her then would just have to be locked up tight once more. It didn't matter, nor should it.

"He's a _priest_, for God's sake," she berated herself as she tossed her beer-stained shirt into her hamper and pulled her hair out of its messy ponytail, making her way to the bathroom to get the remnants of a night at the Huntsman off of her. She dialed her cell phone on the way, the Chinese place she had on speed dial, and placed an order to be delivered. She had thirty minutes, more than enough time to shower and pull on her sweats and find something mindless to watch on TV for the rest of the night.

She had barely pulled on her sweats and oversized sweatshirt, and was in the midst of winding her damp hair up in a bun on top of her head, when there was a knock at her door. She looked at the clock. "Fast tonight," she muttered, grabbing her wallet off the small table in her entry way and throwing the deadbolt off the door, pulling it open.

Her eyes widened. "You're not Chinese," she said stupidly.

"Very astute, lass," the man she'd thought she wouldn't see again said, peering over her shoulder into her apartment. "The least you could do would be to let me in out of the cold, seeing as you stood me up." He gave her an easy grin.

Emma looked at him incredulously. "What are you _doing _here?"

"Helping," he said with a shrug.

"I don't need help," she told him shortly.

"Well, you said you'd be at the meeting, and you weren't there. I was afraid something cataclysmic might've befallen you," Killian said dramatically.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Cataclysmic?" she said dryly. "Who even talks like that?"

He leaned in. "I do," he said, as though he were imparting some great secret to her.

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine," Emma said quickly, trying to dispel the little flutter she felt in her gut when he leaned in. "So thanks for stopping by, but you know ... go?"

"Manners," he chided her, that infuriating grin still on his face. It was only then when she looked at him though, that she saw the flicker of something in his eyes. Was it ... fear? What the hell did he have to be scared of?

"Right, sorry," Emma deadpanned. "_Please _go."

"And here I thought we were friends."

"Guess you thought wrong." Her eyes flickered to his and held for just a beat too long, and she knew it. She swallowed thickly, looking down. "I tried to be there," she muttered. "I did, I really ... really did."

Killian took a step forward then, and Emma sucked in a breath, taking a step back, her eyes darting back to his face. "Let me in," he said. "It's freezing out here, love. Let me in and I shall let you give me any excuse you like about being absent tonight."

Emma frowned, finally stepping back and to the side, opening the door wider for him to come inside. "Five minutes," she mumbled as he walked past her.

He made his way to the living room, and Emma wasn't sure how she felt about the way he acted like he owned the place already. "Why are you really here?" she asked him.

"I told you," he said, turning to face her. There was something aggravating about that damned collar he was wearing, it made it hard for her to see him as anyone _but _a priest. She supposed that was a good thing though. Sometimes she looked at him and ... well.

A reminder couldn't hurt.

"What did you tell me?" she asked him, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked at him.

He sighed, taking a step toward her. "I thought something had happened to you, I was wor - I was concerned."

"Well, you don't have to be," she told him, trying her best not to look at him, but finding it impossible not to. "As you can see, I'm completely fine. I tried to get the time off from work, and I was supposed to be done by eight, but my replacement didn't show up til nine." She shrugged. "Not exactly a crisis situation."

"I'm glad of it," he told her sincerely.

Emma shook her head. "Well, now that you've done your good deed for the day, you can leave." It came out shorter than she had intended it to, but him being in the room made it feel like all the oxygen was slowly being sucked out of the area.

"Is that what you want?" he asked her then, and there it was again, that nervous flicker in his too-blue-to-be-real eyes.

Emma was about to answer, though she wasn't sure what she'd been about to say, when, for the second time that evening, there was a knock at the door. "Food," she mumbled lamely, pushing past him and into the entryway. She paid the deliveryman and accepted her food from him, heading back into the living room then. She cast a glance at Killian, then to the cartons of food in her hands. She sighed heavily. She couldn't help but think of her dream from the night before ... the climb. The single step, the beginning of a journey.

Was that what this was? Did she dare to find out?

She bit her lip, contemplating her choices here. Neither of them seemed particularly brilliant ... but one of them, the one where she didn't have to spend yet another evening _alone _... well, it seemed to be the better choice, in the end. It was nothing, she told herself. It was friends, sharing a meal.

Friends _did _that.

"Do you like Chinese?" she finally asked him, and he smiled.

To Be Continued ...


	3. Valley of the Shadow

**A/N: **Okay, well, this might be one of my favorite chapters of anything I've ever written ... I don't know, I am just ridiculously happy with the way this came out, which is REALLY rare for me, because I usually have all this hate for everything I write. LOL Anyway, I hope you guys like this one ... things are progressing now. There are quite a few shout-outs to the show in this one, and also ... well, I hope you can figure out where this part of the plot is going. And I hope you like angst. Enjoy!

_**Three  
**_**Valley of the Shadow ...**

_And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.  
Matthew 6:13_

The click of heels on the hardwood floor of the sanctuary's foyer made Killian look up from his spot near the pulpit. He frowned; no one was supposed to be here right now, it was the whole reason he'd come in the first place. For some peace and quiet, for some time to think. He found himself more and more troubled these days, and he knew part of the reason ... but that didn't explain everything.

His frown only deepened, his expression becoming one of minor revulsion, when he saw who the invader of his solitude was. "Hello, Father," the well-dressed older woman said coolly, walking down the aisle between the rows of pews.

Killian eyed her warily as she approached. Her being here was in no way a portent of good news, in fact, the second he'd seen her, a knot of dread had formed in the pit of his stomach. "Judge Mills," he said curtly, barely granting her the courtesy of nodding his head in her direction. "Confession isn't for another hour ... "

The "Honorable" - and here, he used that term very loosely - Judge Cora Mills shook her head, laughing far too brightly for Killian's liking. "We both know that I have neither the time nor the inclination to confess to this God of yours." She stopped in front of him then, and he fought off the urge to back up. Everything about this woman made his skin crawl, but he knew better than to piss her off. The Mills family was very rich and very powerful, and though he was loath to admit it ... he owed them.

He gave her a tight smile. "Then, please, to what do I owe this ... pleasure?"

"Save me your platitudes, Father," Cora said then with a shake of her head and a tone of boredom in her voice. "I'm here to give you a summons, of sorts."

"Aren't official summons usually brought by way of courier?" he asked then, cautious. There was no way this heralded anything good.

"Oh, it's not official - not exactly. It's a deeply personal matter to me, and one I don't trust to just anybody." Cora smiled at him, and he misliked it. "I'm not working as a judge in this capacity, but as my daughter - and her husband's - lawyer. They're preparing a case, to gain sole custody of my grandson."

"Your grandson?" Killian asked, brow furrowing. He hadn't known that Cora's daughter, Regina, had a child.

"Well, technically, he is my step-grandson," Cora explained. "Regina's husband's son ... but honestly, the farce has gone on long enough. The child's birth 'mother'," here, Cora used air-quotations, "is unfit to own a plant, let alone parent a young boy." She sneered contemptuously.

"Fascinating, but what does this have to do with me?" Killian said, his tone clipped.

"So impatient," Cora said, smirking softly. "It's simple. The ... woman," she said, with no small amount of disdain in her voice, "has her monthly visitation with the boy on Saturday. They've been having the visits supervised by a social worker, but ... well. It's not working out any more."

"Again I say, what does this have to do with _me_?" Killian's voice was strained now. He had a fairly good idea that he knew where this was going, and he wanted no part in it. Whoever this poor woman was, she'd crossed the wrong family just by the sake of existing and getting in the way of the Mills family goals.

"As a member of the clergy, you're qualified to supervise such a visit," Cora explained, as though she were talking to a small child. "All we need is for you to ... evaluate the situation. Any information you could provide, showing that the boy's mother is unfit ... well. We would be ever-so-grateful, I'm sure you understand, Father." Her eyes flicked to his, and he felt the bile rising in the back of his throat.

"So you want me to _lie _for you, is that it?" Killian said, his expression both incredulous and impressed - impressed that she had the gall to ask such a thing of him. "You want me to ruin this woman's life, to take her son away from her ... "

"Father, please," Cora said in exasperation. "It's hardly a lie. And we're doing this in the best interest of _Henry_. The woman birthed him in _prison_, for God's sake, she works in a dive bar, and her home is no better than a glorified tenement."

"I refuse," Killian said firmly. "I won't do it, Cora."

Cora's eyes snapped angrily. "Oh, but you will," she said, taking another step toward him. "Need I remind you that the _only _reason that pretty face of yours isn't rotting away in a jail cell is because of _me_? Because I granted you leniency, and _mercy_, when others would have locked you away and thrown away the key."

Killian swallowed thickly, his jaw clenching at her words. He'd done so many things ... things he'd go back and change, if he could. Things he'd done in the name of grief, things he'd done to save himself, things he'd done without thought or clear foresight. Looking back now, without the haze clouding his judgment, he knew, that if he could do it all over ... he would have let the worst befall him. He didn't deserve this second chance he was so desperate to cling to ... he deserved prison, he deserved _worse_.

But what was done was done, and the idea of adding more sins to further blacken his soul made him feel nothing but numb. He'd made his choices, and now he had to live with them. "You're asking me to come between a mother and son," he said, and his voice had an edge of desperation to it now.

"On the contrary, I'm asking you to get rid of a nuisance, a stain that has no place in the boy's life," Cora told him. "His mother is my _daughter_. She's been there, these past seven years while the woman who gave birth to him has been doing God knows what, God knows where, with God knows who. This boy is an innocent, a child, and he deserves better than that." When Killian didn't respond, Cora gritted her teeth, leaning far too close to him for comfort. "You do know who my daughter is married to, don't you?" she breathed lowly. "Neal Cassidy."

Killian's expression changed then, to one of confusion, slowly giving way to realization. "Neal ... " he trailed off. "Cassidy," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Why ... isn't he ... the baby brother of your dearly departed?" Cora said, arching a brow at him. "What would _she _want you to do? Don't you owe it to her ... all things considered?" Cora smiled coldly at him then, and he felt as though he'd been suckerpunched in the gut. "Do the right thing here, Father," the judge went on. "For once."

Killian's eyes snapped to her face, his expression dour. "That's what I'm trying to do," he said through gritted teeth.

Cora looked around the sanctuary, laughing that too-bright laugh again. "We both know what you're really doing here ... you're _hiding_. And you might be fooling everyone else, but you forget that I saw you after the accident, I know what you did. You can only hide for so long before it catches up with you." She took his hand then, pressing a folded scrap of paper into his palm. "Be at this address, Saturday at 10 a.m. You'll be there, won't you?"

He closed his eyes, swallowing thickly as he fought off the urge to scream at the top of his lungs. _You deserve this, _he reminded himself, _you deserve it all. This is what you've wrought with all you've done ... be a man about it and face it._

"Aye," he said quietly. "I'll be there."

"Wonderful," Cora said, smiling that awful, victorious smile of hers. "I knew you'd see reason, Father. I'll be in touch."

Killian watched her walk away, out of the sanctuary. She paused at the door, long enough to pull on a pair of oversized sunglasses, and when she walked out the door, he caught a glimpse of the bright sunlight outside, but he felt cold all over.

He felt for all the world as though he'd just sold his soul to the devil, but he told himself that he was being ridiculous. That had been a done deal a long time ago. There was no soul left to take.

It didn't stop him from going to the altar and lighting a candle. Under his breath, he recited the words he'd spoken so many times before, seeking solace and comfort in them, knowing there was none to be had ... but needing it, nonetheless.

"The Lord is my shepherd," he began, his voice a shaky whisper, "I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness," here his voice broke, but he didn't cry, "and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

He sat there after he'd said the words, waiting for tears to come, waiting for something ... but there was just nothing. He hadn't cried since the accident that had stolen Milah from him, and he wasn't sure he knew how any more. He felt numb, no, worse, he felt _empty_, and he hated himself all the more for it. He just wanted to feel again, be it good or bad, he just wanted to know he was still human, because he felt like a ghost.

It was only when Father O'Malley showed up to start hearing confession that Killian realized how long he'd been sitting there. He glanced at his watch, suddenly remembering that it was Wednesday, and he had a meeting to get to.

The thought of the meeting led him to thoughts of Emma. She had said she would be there, and ... God, he knew it was stupid ... but just the thought of that was enough to raise him to his feet, was enough to make him put one foot in front of the other and go. The thought of seeing her gave him strength, and it shouldn't have. Somehow, in such a short amount of time, she'd become a bright spot in an otherwise bleak life.

He didn't deserve any bright spots. And the universe apparently agreed with him.

Emma wasn't at the meeting. He might've known. She'd been placating him when she said she'd show up, of course she had. She had no intention of coming back, and why would she? He'd been pushy and probably annoying as hell. She would've said anything to shut him up. God, he was a fool.

The whole meeting, he barely registered what anyone was saying, nodding only when he thought it was the appropriate thing to do. He knew everyone could tell he was distracted, but there was nothing he could do about it. Every time the door opened, his head snapped up, hoping for a glimpse of blonde hair. Sister Astrid kept looking at him, an almost knowing look in her eyes, and God, he didn't want her to question him about it later.

He was an idiot. After what he'd agreed to ... after everything ... what made him think he deserved even a modicum of happiness, even for just a second?

Still. She had said she would come. And she'd seemed so sincere. Or had he just wanted to believe in something so badly that he'd managed to convince himself of that fact? He remembered that night at her apartment, their conversation ... the drawings ... the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he'd found someone to talk to, someone who understood him ...

No. He hadn't imagined that, he hadn't, dammit. There had to be a reason she hadn't shown up. As soon as the meeting had ended, and he could leave without drawing too much attention to himself, he grabbed his coat from the rack out front and headed out into the night. He heard Sister Astrid's voice calling his name, but he ignored it. It was rude, but he didn't care. He didn't want to talk to her right now. He didn't want to talk to anyone.

Except Emma.

Something had happened, he was sure of it, and he knew he wouldn't have a moment's peace until he'd seen her. He managed to convince himself, quite well, that he was merely concerned about her, as a friend would be. They _were _friends, weren't they? At least, they were starting to be, he thought. It wasn't wrong to want to check on her. To have her talk to him, like they were normal. Like he hadn't just agreed to do something appalling. Like his whole damn life wasn't a fucking sham.

He'd almost hailed a cab, but in the end, he decided to walk. Two miles to her apartment, two miles to talk himself out of knocking on her door, two miles to convince himself that it was friendly concern, nothing more, that led him to her now.

Two miles, he gave himself, two miles, and he still reached her door, somehow, still managed to raise his hand to knock, still managed to believe that it wasn't because he _needed _her.

She opened the door, wearing oversized sweats and a confused expression, her wallet in one hand. She blinked rapidly at him. "You're not Chinese," she said after a moment, and he wanted to laugh because she was okay, because the one good thing in his life hadn't had something terrible happen to her ... but instead, he just grinned at her, almost stupidly, because he was _that _damn relieved.

"Very astute, lass," he told her, still grinning, unable to stop. He felt a little unhinged, he didn't know if it was from the cold or the sight of her or just ... everything from the whole damn day. "The least you could do would be to let me in out of the cold, seeing as you stood me up."

Emma was hesitant, and he knew that she was, but in the end, she opened the door wider for him, and he came inside. He felt better for it ... it was easy to pretend here, it was easier to breathe here, with her, and he didn't want to venture any guesses as to why that was, he just wanted to accept it. For now, it was what it was, and that was enough.

It was only after they'd eaten most of the Chinese food she'd ordered before he'd shown up, sitting side by side on her sofa - close, but not touching - that she decided to question him. "It's really late, Father," she said softly. "Why are you here, really?"

He didn't answer right away, instead reaching for the last eggroll in the container as he tried to come up with a good excuse - or _any _reason, at all.

"Ah-ah!" Emma admonished him then, smacking his hand lightly before he could take the eggroll. "Touch that and you'll pull back a bloody stump," she said, arching a brow at him warningly.

He arched a brow right back at her. "Have you considered speaking to someone about these violent outbursts of yours?" he asked her with a wry grin. "Though I suppose I could use the one-handed priest thing to my advantage."

Emma smiled crookedly, a small laugh escaping her lips then. "We could get you a nice hook," she suggested, looking at him, her grin widening across her face.

"A hook?" he asked, slightly confused.

He would've sworn that a light blush crept up on Emma's cheeks then, and God help him, it was all he could do not to reach out and brush his fingers over her skin. "Never mind, it's nothing," she muttered, looking down. "Just ... you know, the drawings?"

"Oh, right," he said, nodding then. "The _pirate _thing." He widened his eyes at her dramatically, and she shook her head at him.

"You're ridiculous," she muttered.

"Is that a bad thing?" he asked her, his hand inching closer to that eggroll.

She narrowed her eyes at his hand. "It is if you take my last eggroll."

He held up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right. I shall concede defeat. But only just this once." He winked at her, and she blinked.

"You never answered my question," she said after a moment, reaching for and taking the much-contested eggroll.

Killian sighed heavily. He'd sort of hoped she'd forgotten she'd asked. But of course she hadn't, and of course she had every reason to want to know why he'd just shown up, out of the blue like he had.

"I had a ... rough day," he finally admitted, deciding to be honest ... well, for the most part. "And then you didn't show up and I thought, well, hell, with the way things are going today ... " He shook his head, giving her a sad smile. "I just wanted to be sure, is all."

Emma seemed to accept that as she chewed thoughtfully, swallowing before answering. "All right," she said then, nodding slowly. She shrugged. "I mean, I can't ... really say that it sucked to see you. My day hasn't exactly been puppies and rainbows either." She made a face.

"Well, there you go," he said. "We both needed a friend."

Emma's eyes flickered to his face, her expression one he couldn't read then. "Yeah," she finally said, her voice quiet. "I guess we did." She seemed to shake herself out of her reverie then. "But you know, there's probably an easier way to go about all this." He gave her a look, confused now, having no idea where she was going with this. "You have a phone, right?" she asked him then. "I mean, priests ... carry phones?"

He gave her a look. "We're not relics from a past age, love," he told her with a chuckle, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone to show her.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, whatever, just give it here." She held out her hand then, wiggling her fingers expectantly.

"Why?" he asked, completely flummoxed.

"So I can program it to blow up when you walk out the door, obviously," Emma deadpanned, giving him a tight-lipped smile. She sighed then, shaking her head. "I am going," she said, speaking very slowly, as though he'd have a hard time keeping up, "to give you," she continued in the same manner, reaching for and pulling the phone out of his hand then, "my phone number. Are these acceptable terms, Father?"

Killian swallowed thickly, watching her tap her phone number on the keypad. It made sense, what she was saying, what she was doing, but something about it felt so ... intimate, which was absurd and ridiculous. He had lots of numbers in his phone, there were many members of the Church he liked to maintain contact with.

But this wasn't official business. It wasn't Church-related at all, though he did his best to convince himself otherwise. No, this was personal, and it floored him, completely.

"Now," Emma said, biting back a grin as she pressed the phone back into his palm, "try to refrain from _too _many late-night phone calls, difficult as it might be for you." She met his eyes then, her expression suddenly serious. "And please. No booty calls."

"_Emma_!" he sputtered, eyes widening as he looked at her.

She burst into peals of laughter then. "Oh, that was priceless!" she gasped breathlessly. "You should have seen your face!" She gave his shoulder a little shove. "Lighten up, I'm _teasing _you, God, do they take away your sense of humor in priest school, too?"

Killian was floundering, and he had no idea how to get the upper hand back here ... and since when was there an upper hand to be had? He watched her, her laughter transforming her into something ... magnificent. She was breathtaking in this moment, and if he didn't leave soon, he was going to do something stupid.

He stood up abruptly, and Emma's laughter died on her lips, her expression changing almost immediately. "Hey ... I'm sorry, I was just kidding ... I didn't mean ... I'm sorry, really."

He shook his head, looking down at her, which was a mistake. The light in her sea-colored eyes was drawing him in and he wanted to drown in her ... drown in a way that was nothing like the drowning he'd been doing for the past decade. He _wanted _... and he couldn't have ... and he needed to get away from her, now, or else he was going to pull her to her feet and haul her right up next to him and ... _God_.

"It's not ... it's not that," he said, but the words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. "I have to go, Emma ... I ... thank you, for the food. And for ... " He shook his head. "Just. Thank you."

"Killian ... " she said slowly, rising to her feet. His hands found her shoulders and he pushed her back down onto the sofa, not roughly, not unkindly, just enough to keep her from getting too close, because he wouldn't be able to resist if she was. "Hey!" she protested then, her expression disbelieving. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I have to go," he said again, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair she'd draped it over when she'd taken it from him only a few hours earlier.

She was fast though, on her feet and standing at the door before he reached it. "What. The. _Hell_?" she repeated, her eyes flashing as she looked up at him.

"Emma," he gritted out, his jaw clenched tight. "For God's sake, just let me go."

"Not until you tell me why!" she said, arms crossed over her chest. "I'm sorry if I offended you, but that's no reason for you to just ... "

"Just _what_?" he demanded, suddenly exasperated, suddenly tired. "Emma ... "

His eyes met hers then, and held them for several seconds too long. He could hear the sharp intake of her breath, and when she swallowed hard, his eyes trailed to her throat. He could see the spot where her pulse jumped and he wanted to press his lips there, he wanted to push her back against the door and kiss her until they were both breathless and wanting. He wanted to lose himself in her, again and again and again, until this wretched night was over and the sun was coming up.

"Move," he said, clenching his eyes shut. His voice was low and even, though everything else about him was screaming with need for her. "Emma, just ... move."

He opened his eyes, and hated himself just a little bit for the pang of disappointment he felt when she stepped aside. He yanked the door open, harder than necessary and was all but through it before he turned around. Her expression was so pained that he _almost _turned around and kissed her anyway, just to make that look go away. "I'm sorry," he told her sadly, shaking his head before he pulled the door shut behind him.


	4. A Desolate Place

**A/N: **This is an Emma chapter. And there's no Killian in it, directly. But he's mentioned and thought of, and DEFINITELY present, considering where things got left off in the last chapter. This is a sort of transitionary chapter, for all the things that are to come. And there are a lot. And most of them hurt. I hope you guys like this chapter, I'm pretty pleased with it.

_**Four**_**  
A Desolate Place ...**

_For my sides are filled with burning, and there is no soundness in my flesh.  
__Psalm 38:7_

It took a long time for Emma to move ... she had stood at the door, wondering for several long, soul-crushing, agonizing minutes after he'd left her. Part of her had wanted to go after him, demand answers.

The other part - the bigger part - was terrified to know what those answers might be. This was not to be, and she knew it ... she knew impossible situations when she saw them. And yet she seemed to continually put herself into them. And this was probably the most impossible situation she had ever found herself in ... and yeah, that was saying something.

Stupid, _stupid _girl.

She finally shook herself from her self-imposed reverie, and moved back into the living room. Slowly, methodically, almost, she began clearing up the empty cartons and dishes, taking them into the kitchen. She worked as though she were on autopilot, not really noticing what she was doing, just doing it because she had to do _something_.

She shouldn't see him again, that much was certain. She should find another meeting to attend, because she was doing _that _for her son, she was doing _that _for Henry. But it couldn't be there. It couldn't be with _him_. She did her best to ignore the pang she felt in her chest, in her gut, as she thought about that.

"Seriously, Emma," she berated herself as she scrubbed almost mercilessly at the plates in her sink. "What do you think will hurt more in the long run? Not seeing him at all again, or seeing him over and over and _over _again, knowing that you can't ... "

Her brow furrowed, the plate in her hand slipping from her grasp. Luckily, it was cheap plastic - story of her life - and nothing was broken but her train of thought. Shaking her head, she backed away from the sink, reaching for a towel to dry her hands on.

She needed to sleep, that was all. She'd feel better in the morning, clearer-minded. Hell, maybe she was already asleep. This was just some elaborate dream her mind was punishing her with ...

She left the dishes in the sink; she would deal with them tomorrow, she'd deal with everything tomorrow. She flipped the light off in the kitchen, and didn't bother turning on any other lights as she made her way back to her bedroom. She wanted the dark right now.

Emma dreamed of storms that night, when she finally fell asleep.

When the dream started, she was on the bow of that now-familiar ship she'd seen so many times before in her dreams of him, being tossed from side to side as the wind and the rain pelted at the vessel. The waves swelled and crashed over the railings. She tried to hold onto him, could feel him holding onto her, but his grasp was slipping. Another wave hit, and Emma felt herself being tossed overboard.

She didn't know how long she sank, how deep she went under, but she felt arms around her, finally, and felt herself breaking the surface and being pulled ashore.

But it wasn't a beach she found herself on, when she came to, sputtering and coughing for breath. It was a city sidewalk, dirty and hot, wet beneath her from the same storm that continued to rage. She tried to open her eyes, but the rain pelted at her face, making it all but impossible.

"Shh, you're all right." The female voice that spoke then was unfamiliar to her, but soothing.

Emma frowned, pushing herself up, opening her eyes fully at last. She looked at who it was that had saved her. Her forehead creased ... there was something familiar about the woman ... long dark hair and bright blue eyes ... but she couldn't put her finger on it, not really. "Do I know you?"

"In a sense," the woman said. "You seem to have ties to a lot of people who had ties to me." She smiled sadly. "My brother, my husband ... "

Emma looked closer at the woman, and remembered then where she'd seen her before ... there had been a photograph of her, hanging in the Cassidys' home. She had died right before Emma had met Neal ... her death was one of the reasons he'd been as bad off as he had been back then. Emma swallowed thickly.

"Milah?"

Milah smiled that sad smile again. "In the flesh ... so to speak."

"But ... I don't understand ... you said ... I know your husband? I don't think I've ever met him ... "

Milah wasn't paying any attention to Emma right now. "He dreams this dream almost every night," she said softly. "Every night, he kills me. Again, and again, over and over ... the guilt over it is choking him."

"I ... I don't really ... "

"But it's changed recently, this dream. He doesn't dream of killing me any more ... I think he's moving on, at last." Milah's voice was expressionless, she could have been talking about anyone. "Which is good ... he doesn't do well on his own. He'd never admit it, but he needs someone to look out for him."

"I'm sorry, I _really _don't understand," Emma said, stumbling to her feet and pushing her wet hair out of her face.

"The problem is that he's still not over it. No matter how he atones ... " Milah sighed. "He doesn't dream of killing _me _any more, because now he dreams of killing _you_."

Milah turned to face Emma then, and for the flicker of a heartbeat, her face changed to that of Judge Mills, Regina's mother and lawyer, the one who wanted to take Henry away from her for good. But then it was right back to Milah. Emma didn't have time to process what it all meant, because suddenly there were headlights, coming right at them. Milah flickered away, like a ghost, like a shadow, but Emma was left standing there, unable to move as the car careened toward her, going way too fast.

She saw the face of the driver, through the glare, through the rain, saw the horrified look in his too-blue-to-be real eyes only a second before ...

Emma woke up screaming, sitting bolt upright in bed, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat. "What the fuck was that?" she gasped, her breathing ragged and shallow. In all her life, this whole time she'd been having those bizarre, crazy dreams of hers ... they had _never _felt like that. They'd never _been _like that. It hadn't even felt like _her _dream, but ...

That was fucking impossible. This whole thing was fucking impossible. And it had to end. It had to stop, _now_. This connection they had, this feeling in her gut that kept screaming out at her for him ... it couldn't exist. She couldn't _need _him, she just ... she couldn't. Her head dropped into her hands then, and she started to cry.

The next day passed in a blur for her. She went to work, she went through the motions, she managed to avoid talking to anyone about anything more than customers and orders, and she went home afterward, locking the door and shutting off her phone, on the stupid outside chance that he might actually try to call her, even though she knew he wouldn't. Not with the way they'd left things on Wednesday night. He'd almost ... and God, she would have _let _him, she would have welcomed it, she _wanted _him to.

But she _shouldn't _want that, and it was selfish and stupid and insane to want it. And he _couldn't_. No matter what either of them felt ... it wasn't going to happen. She just had to let it ... whatever it was ... die. Wither on the vine and _die _before it ever got a chance to become anything more. It was better that way. Let him think she'd disappeared, let him think that she hated him ... it was _better _that way.

She should have known that her clarity wouldn't last. As soon as she walked in the door at work on Friday - after she had seriously considered calling in - Graham was there. "Emma," he said seriously.

"What?" she asked, unable to keep the edge of exasperation from her voice.

"What the hell is going on with you these past couple of days, hm?" His expression was serious and concerned, and Emma immediately felt bad. "Was it your ... Wednesday night, super secret thing you can't tell anyone about?"

Emma rolled her eyes. "No," she said, too quickly. She shook her head, moving to step past him, but he blocked her way. "Graham," she said tiredly. "Can you just let me get to work?"

"Emma." His hands were on her shoulders then, and she looked down, eyebrows raised, before raising her gaze to his face. "You really should talk to someone ... I know the thing with your son and your ... ex is taking its toll on you."

"I'm fine, Graham. Really," Emma said, forcing a smile. "I get to see Henry tomorrow, and his birthday's next week, so I'm making him cupcakes and we're going to the zoo. It's one of the ... things on the list that I'm allowed to do with him." She made a face. "Apparently we're getting a new social worker or whatever ... I don't know what happened to the old one, but I'm kinda guessing that the Mills had something to do with it." She was rambling, and she knew it, but it was better that she talked than he did, because he looked like he had something to say that she probably wasn't going to like.

"Have dinner with me," he said then, completely apropros of nothing.

Emma sighed, her eyes flashing to his face to see if he was fucking with her. "What? No! Graham, I'm not having dinner with you."

"Why not?" he asked her, completely seriously.

"Um, aside from the fact that you're my _boss _and it's completely inappropriate?" Emma asked, almost incredulously. "I'm not having dinner with you." She repeated, more firmly this time.

"It's because of Mr. Wednesday Night, isn't it?" he asked, and his mouth was in a thin line, but he didn't sound angry, just ... sad.

Emma exhaled heavily. "God, there is no Mr. Wednesday Night!" she cried. "I don't know where this stupid idea is coming from, but get rid of it. There's no guy, there's nothing ... I just ... I'm not having dinner with you. End of discussion. Now, let me get to work."

Graham stepped aside without any further argument then, and Emma didn't dare look back at him, knowing she'd see that wounded puppy look that he was so good at, and not needing that guilt added onto the rest she already felt.

She was so stupid. A normal girl, a smart girl, would have gladly taken him up on that offer. Graham was smart, and cute, and successful, and he cared about her, and all she could think about was how Killian's eyes had looked the other night, when he'd had her up against the door ... when she'd thought he was going to ...

"God, _stupid_!" Emma muttered to herself, nearly running into Ashley as she came out of the kitchen.

"Who's stupid?" the blonde asked her, blinking in confusion.

"Me," Emma said with a heavy sigh. "I'm stupid." She walked off before Ashley could ask more questions that Emma just didn't feel like answering. "I'm so fucking stupid."

Somehow, she made it through her shift, and managed to avoid Graham for most of it. He stopped her when she was in the breakroom, pulling on her jacket at the end of her shift. "Please don't," she said, shaking her head.

"Emma, I've known you for the past two years ... I know when something's going on with you, I've gotten pretty damn good at reading you. This is more than your son, this is more than ... _Emma_. Talk to me. Tell me what's going on, maybe I can help you. I _want _to help you."

"I'm fine, I don't need you to save me," Emma said.

"Does he even know?" Graham asked her then.

"Who?"

"_Emma_."

"_Graham_," she retorted dryly. "For the last time. There's no one. There's ... just me." She shouldered past him then, out the back door of the bar and toward her little yellow bug.

It was late, but she still needed to go to the grocery store, and get the things that she needed to make the cupcakes she wanted to take with her tomorrow, when she saw Henry. It was the least she could do. She hated that she wasn't even allowed to see him on his actual birthday, that she had to make due with her monthly visit with him, a full week before the actual day.

She hadn't yet been able to spend her son's actual birthday with him, and it sucked. But she was bound and determined to make the best of it, to be _happy _for him, and to have a good day with her son tomorrow.

She was well aware that with the arrival of this new supervisor for their visits starting tomorrow, _everything _could change. The old social worker had been a very nice woman, who had thought highly of Emma, and who had been impressed with the way she had turned her life around.

It wasn't any wonder the Mills had wanted to get rid of her. Emma wasn't an idiot, she knew exactly what they were planning. They wanted to take him away, they wanted to wipe her out of his life, completely, and whoever this new case worker - or whoever - was, he or she was surely in the pocket of _Cora_, at the very least.

That didn't bode well for Emma, but she'd get through it. She could be charming, dammit. She'd charm the _pants _off of whoever it was, see if she didn't.

The evening at home was surprisingly peaceful for her. She turned on her ancient radio, the only musical source she had, tuning it to a local rock station and turning it way up as she moved about her kitchen, working on the cupcakes. She may not have been a terrific cook, but one thing she could do, was bake a hell of a batch of homemade chocolate cupcakes, with cinnamon-creme frosting ... they were Henry's favorite, and the recipe was one she wasn't about to share with anyone else.

When they were finished, cooled, and placed in a nice white box with a blue bow wrapped around them, a package of star-shaped candles placed on top to go with them, she moved into the bedroom. She opened her closet, staring inside at her fairly meager offering of clothing. She wanted something classy, something to impress the new person, something to prove that she was capable ... but also not a kiss ass. Kiss asses were just as bad, she knew.

She decided on dark-washed jeans, and her favorite knee-high boots, the ones that laced up the front, and a white button down blouse. In the morning, when she woke, after she showered, she pulled her hair back into a braid, winding it around her head like a sort of halo, letting a few tendrils stay loose around her face. She put on light makeup, bronzer and mascara and gloss, just enough to hide the dark circles, enough to give herself some color, but not enough to look cheap. Nobody wanted to see trashy mom.

She scrutinized herself in the mirror, hoping she looked respectable ... knowing that this new caseworker would know everything about her past, knowing that they were working against her in this, that they were hand-chosen by Cora or Regina or both of them, that they were going to use anything against her to take Henry from her, and she couldn't let that happen. She _couldn't _lose her son ... not after everything. Losing him was a hurt she couldn't bear, it was one she wouldn't ever recover from.

She shrugged into her red leather jacket, and moved to the kitchen to gather up the cupcakes and the small gift she'd gotten Henry - it wasn't much, but it was the best she could do right now. She paused, hand on her front door then, and closed her eyes, and did something she _never _did.

She prayed.

"God ... I could really use some help today."


	5. Forgive Us Our Trespasses

**A/N: I honestly ... there is nothing to say about this chapter. It hurts. It was _made_ to hurt. It's going to _keep_ hurting for a while. I'm sorry for the delay with this one, but it was the kind of thing that needed time taken to get just right. I hope you like it.**

**Five  
**_**Forgive Us Our Trespasses ...**_

_A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will not escape.  
Proverbs 19:5_

The sky was dark with the promise of rain when Killian woke on Saturday morning. And really, that was just perfect. It wasn't as though there were anything that could make this day any worse than it was already bound to be.

He opted to wear regular attire, without the collar, for he was absolutely not doing the work of God today, and his stomach was already churning. It didn't help that he hadn't slept the night before ... once again, he'd had the dream again. Not the one that had plagued him for the past decade. No, this was the dream that had only recently begun to torment him. Instead of dreaming of the crash that had taken Milah ... he was dreaming of a different one. The same, almost, except this time it was _Emma _that he killed.

He was only ever going to ruin lives. If he cared about anyone ... they should run away from him. Everything he touched turned to ash. He shouldn't have become a priest. He should've become a monk, one that sequestered himself far from the rest of the world.

It wasn't too late to back out ... he kept telling himself that, over and over, the whole time he was in the cab. He honestly had no idea where he was meeting the woman, he'd simply given the address that Cora had given him to the driver and had sat back in his seat, closing his eyes and praying - feebly - for all the good it would do.

His eyes opened when he felt the taxi come to a stop, his brow furrowing as he realized where they were. The zoo. It seemed a little impersonal, he thought, for a parent-child visitation, but then he remembered something he'd read ... these supervised visits were carefully monitored and planned out - there were only certain things that were allowed. He didn't agree with it, but, well, he didn't agree with much about the entire situation.

He paid the driver then, thanking him and stepping out of the cab. He took a look around, trying to see if he could spot his new "charge" ... not that he knew what she looked like.

He was spared the trouble of trying to figure it out then, when a shiny black Lexus pulled up very near him, and a woman stepped out of the driver's seat, black stilettos clicking against the pavement.

He almost would have preferred to see Cora again.

"Hello, Father," Regina Mills said, her voice and tone almost identical to her mother's, in a way that bordered on creepy.

"Ms. Mills," he said, nodding his head formally. It was true that she'd been married to Neal Cassidy for nearly five years now, but she had insisted on keeping her own name.

Not much of a surprise, really.

"I trust you'll be able to handle what it is my mother has asked of you?"

He noted, with some sense of wry amusement, that she'd not let the lad out of the car while she was speaking to him.

"I've got the form," Killian said, his tone bland. Just because he was here, at the behest of that awful woman and her equally repugnant daughter, didn't mean he had to out and out lie. He'd do the job he'd been summoned to do, but he'd do it the way he saw fit.

"It's important to know that we're on the same page," Regina continued "It's important ... for Henry's future. I'm sure you understand. Obviously serving the best interest of the child is what everyone wants here."

"Oh, without a doubt," Killian said, his smile tight and almost mocking, though he doubted she would notice.

Regina looked at her watch, sighing impatiently. "And of course she's already late," she muttered. "Off to a wonderful start, as usual."

"Traffic was murder today," Killian offered helpfully, knowing it would probably only serve to irritate Regina, and not really caring. "It took a bit longer to get here than I had anticipated."

Regina cast a glance at him, her gaze icy. "Well, one would think that a _mother _would plan for these instances."

Killian gritted his teeth, knowing that getting into an argument with the Mills woman right now was beyond pointless. "I'll have you know," she went on then, "that my husband is unaware of your ... involvement in these proceedings, and it's going to stay that way. Needless to say, you aren't exactly his favorite person and he won't exactly welcome the news. But once we have the documentation we need to open our case, he won't really be able to fault the methods."

Killian started to say something, but was interrupted - thankfully, considering there was no love lost between himself and Neal Cassidy - by the back door of the car opening, and a young boy of about ten clambering out. "Is she here yet?" he asked, and there was an eagerness in his tone that sort of belied the whole 'his mother is a terrible woman' thing the Mills were trying to spin.

"Does it look like she's here?" Regina said, casting a glance at the boy.

"No," the lad said, a dejected tone in his voice. He looked up at Killian then. "Who're you?" he asked. "What happened to Belle?"

"We told you, Belle wasn't going to be working these visits with you any more. Grandmother decided, remember?" Regina said, kneeling down to be at Henry's level then. "This is Father Jones, he'll be doing exactly the same job that Belle did."

"Oh," he said, shrugging a little. "That's too bad. I liked Belle. She and Mom and I always had fun."

Killian bit back a smile at the boy's cheekiness, and the exasperation he could see clearly on Regina's face. "Well, I'll try not to be too much of a bore," Killian assured him with a quick grin.

The boy regarded him for a minute, before nodding. "You'll do, I guess," he finally said. "Have you met my mom?" He glanced to Regina quickly. "I mean ... my _real _mom?"

"I haven't," Killian told him. "Today will be full of firsts for us all, I think."

Regina rolled her eyes a little. "Well, I'm glad to see you're all bonding," she said shortly. "Now where on earth is ... "

"I'm here, I'm sorry, traffic was a complete disaster."

At the sound of her voice, Killian's eyes widened, and he turned, almost too quickly, away from the sound, not wanting her to see his face. Not that that made any kind of sense, but he suddenly felt the strongest sense of wanting to hide. There was no bloody way ...

"Mom!" Henry cried, rushing toward the newcomer.

And then she laughed, lowering herself to her knees and setting aside all the packages and parcels she'd come with so she could hug the boy fully. "Hey, Henry," she said, her smile radiant and beaming. "How've you been, kid?"

"I'm good!" Henry said, hugging her tight. "Except Belle isn't here today, but we get this guy, and he seems all right."

Emma looked up, still smiling, straightening back to her full height and extending her hand. "Hey," she said. "I'm Em ... " She trailed off when he turned around, her eyes widening. He saw a flash of something behind her eyes, and he could tell there was a storm with his name on it hurtling toward him. "Emma," she finished, her voice a little strained, her mouth fixed in a tight, thin line.

"Emma," Killian breathed out, his own voice a little shakier than it had been only moments before. He reached out then, taking her proffered hand, and though he could feel how much she wanted to pull away, he held on, a beat or two longer than necessary, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. He was trying to reassure her, in whatever way he could. He had no bloody idea what he was supposed to do now, this situation had gone from bad to worse in about five seconds flat.

He just wanted her to know that ... well, he didn't even really know. He just didn't want her looking at him the way she was right now. He didn't want her _hating _him. He hated himself enough already.

Emma yanked her hand away then, her forehead creased as she stuffed both hands in the front pockets of her jeans, rocking back on her heels a little - away from him.

"Yes, this is Emma Swan, and Miss Swan, this is Father Jones," Regina said then, snapping Killian out of whatever reverie he'd been in. "For whatever its worth, not that you'll need to do much talking."

"Well, I don't know about ... " Killian began, but Emma cut him off sharply.

"No, Regina's right," she said, her eyes flickering to his face briefly before looking away once more. "You've got your job to do, Father, and I'm here for my son." There was a coldness in her voice that he hadn't heard from her since that first night he'd met her ... and even then ... it hadn't been this pointed. Emma looked back to Regina then. "We'll meet you right back here at six then?" she asked.

"Six sharp," Regina said curtly, before turning to Henry. "Have a good day, Henry," she told him, before climbing back into her car.

"I will!" Henry said with a grin, his arm around Emma's waist. She smiled down at him, a genuine smile, one that Killian knew he would not see aimed at himself ... well, ever again. "Can we go in now?" he asked once Regina had driven off.

Emma laughed a little. "Patience!" she told him, tapping the tip of his nose fondly.

There was a light in her eyes as she looked at him, one that the boy's own eyes reflected back. Killian felt distinctly like he was intruding, and by all intents and purposes, he was. She should be allowed to see her son, whenever and however and as often as she liked. That there were these fool rules, keeping them apart, deigning that she'd need to be supervised ... he understood why the rules were in place, he did. But they didn't belong _here_. Not with Emma and her son, and Killian _certainly _didn't belong here either.

"I could go," Killian said, before he realized he was speaking aloud. "I could go, Emma, and find someone else ... "

She looked up then, her expression clearly showing that she had forgotten he was even there. "There is no one else," she said, her voice clipped. "Not on this short notice. And this is it for the month. If I don't get today, I have to wait til next month, and his birthday's next week, and I'm not ... I'm just not. Besides, you're working for _them_, aren't you?"

Henry looked between the two of them, his expression confused. "Do you two ... know each other?" he asked.

"No," Emma said, just as Killian said, "Well ... "

Emma glared at Killian for a long, hard minute. "No," she said finally, looking back to Henry then. "No, I don't know him at all. Come on, let's go." She put her arm around Henry's shoulders then, pausing to scoop up the packages she'd set down when she'd arrived.

Killian was doing his damndest to ignore the pang he felt in his chest at her words, at teh coldness in her eyes. He had no right to be upset about this. No right at all. And yet all he wanted to do was grab her and make her understand that he would _never _do anything to hurt her ...

"Ooh, are those for me?" Henry asked, forgetting all about the previous moment, and bringing Killian right back to the present, as well.

"I dunno, they might be," Emma told him lightly, shrugging nonchalantly. "Do you want them now, or do you want to wait for a bit?"

Henry thought for a moment, his face scrunched up in concentration. "I guess we can wait for a bit," he finally conceded, and Emma nodded.

"Good call," she said, smiling at him as they headed for the zoo's front gate. She didn't even glance behind them to see if Killian was following or not. "So what do you want to see first?" she asked Henry as they walked.

Killian felt like his head was buzzing. This was punishment. He never should've agreed to this, and this was God's way of making sure that he damn well _knew _that.

Also he knew it was punishment, not just for agreeing to this stupid task, but also for the way he wanted her ... he'd done nothing but think about her since that night at her apartment ... and God help him, nothing he did seemed to get her out of his mind. Even sleeping, he couldn't escape her. She was in all of his dreams, not just the nightmares, a right and proper siren, luring him to his doom. He didn't know what it all meant, but he supposed it didn't matter now.

It was probably for the best, but as much as he tried to convince himself of the fact, the more he wanted to shout obscenities at the sky.

The day passed much too slowly for Killian, and he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of that thought. Not so very long ago, the thought of being out all day with Emma would have made his heart soar; now it felt as though he were sinking where he stood. She was perfectly pleasant and civil to him for the remainder of the day, when she deigned to acknowledge that he was there at all, that was. He knew the facade was purely for Henry's sake though ... she wasn't about to say or do anything in front of the lad to raise suspicion or cast a sour light on the day. He could see it in her eyes though ... the smile didn't quite reach, the laughter was just a little too forced. Once or twice, he caught her looking his way when she didn't know he was watching, and the hurt on her face had been plain.

He couldn't even pretend that he didn't know why. He only wondered what would happen at the end of this day ... would that be the end of ... whatever it had been?

It should be the end of it. He was a priest. And whatever it was ... whatever he _wanted _... he knew better than to hope for it. And he certainly shouldn't be selfish when it came to her. His own soul was already damned because of what he'd done ... the accident that had been his fault, because he'd been young, and stupid, and thought he was invincible ...

It was a cruel, fucked up joke. He'd survived. Invincible after all. But Milah hadn't been, and he'd lost her - he'd _killed _her - and every day he wished that it had been the other way around. He was damned either way, there was no saving him now.

He shouldn't wish his misery on another soul. He shouldn't wish to have someone to comfort him, that alone kept him up all night, knowing he was breaking every vow he'd ever taken, simply by thinking about her ...

_Emma_.

She was the brightest spot he'd had in these past ten years, a glimmer of hope he didn't deserve, but of course, that was all part of the joke too. Because he couldn't _have _her. And the fact that he wanted to only proved how truly rotten his heart was.

They stopped for a break at one of the outdoor picnic areas set up at various intervals around the zoo, and Emma presented Henry with the gifts she'd brought for him - homemade cupcakes, which, judging from the lad's response, were a great favorite, and a drawing, which made both boy and mum get a little bit teary, but Killian didn't try to see what it was. It wasn't for him to know. All he needed to know he could see in front of his face.

At one point, in the late afternoon, Emma excused herself, leaving Killian alone with Henry for a moment. Henry looked up at him, his expression curious. "You _do _know my mom," he said then, making it a statement, not a question.

"What makes you so sure, lad?" Killian asked, arching a brow. The kid was perceptive. A trait he shared with his mother.

"Because she's upset ... she's upset with you. And if you'd never met before, that wouldn't make any sense," Henry said, shrugging, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

Killian was at a loss for a moment, not really sure how to respond to that. "I think it might just be the situation that your mum has a problem with, lad," he said, finally. "And who could blame her, really? Only getting to see you once a month, I'm sure that takes its toll, yeah?"

Henry nodded then, looking down. "Yeah," he said quietly. He looked up at Killian again then. "You're not ... you're not going to make it so I can't see her any more, are you? I know that's why they got rid of Ruby - she liked my mom too much." The boy's lower lip was trembling, and Killian honestly didn't know what he was supposed to do now. He'd never had much experience with children, and he was sort of floundering. Henry just shook his head then, sighing a little. "Forget it. I love my dad, okay, and Regina and even Cora - they're family, and they've always been there, for as long as I can remember." He looked over his shoulder then, making sure Emma wasn't behind him or close to returning. "But _she's _my _mom_. I know she might have messed up before, but look at her now."

Killian started to say something, but the words died on his lips, his throat dry. There was no separating these two. And he sure as hell wouldn't be the one to do it. Let Cora do what she wanted to him, _he _wasn't important. _Emma _was. Her kid was. "Don't worry," he told Henry quietly, not knowing what else to say. Whatever it took. He'd find a way.

He didn't have time to say more, because Emma came back then. She cast the same cold-eyed glance his way that she'd been giving him off and on all day. "Everything okay?" she asked Henry.

"Everything's fine," he told her, looking between her and Killian. "How do you know Father Jones, Mom?"

Emma whirled to face Henry, eyes wide. "What?" she asked, her face a little aghast.

It would have been highly amusing if Killian wasn't certain his own face was mirroring hers. This kid of hers ... he didn't pull any punches.

"Well," Henry drawled out, a smirk on his face that could only be called 'impish'. "You don't have to tell me, it's fine. But I know you know each other. And you've been pretty rude to him today."

Emma gave Henry a look. "Henry," she began, a warning tone in her voice that even Killian recognized as "mum voice".

"What? I'm just saying. You haven't made conversation or anything and you always tell me that it's rude to ignore people." Henry gave her an innocent look. "You didn't even offer him a cupcake."

Emma rolled her eyes. Honestly, Killian would have found the whole situation hilarious if it hadn't been so damned precarious. She turned to face him then, and he could see the set of her jaw, see the glint in her eyes that said she wasn't happy about any of it, but she was doing it for the kid, because she'd do anything for that kid, that much was apparent.

She gave Killian a tight-lipped, fakely sweet smile, though it seemed just real enough that Henry would buy it. "I'm sorry," she said, and her tone gave away nothing. "He's right. I'm being rude. Here, please, have one."

Killian knew better than to think that this was her way of making amends, but his heart still fluttered a bit anyway as he thought that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't an entirely hopeless situation.

It was that thought that he'd come to rue later.

The rest of the day passed fairly uneventfully. Emma spoke to him more than a few times, civilly. She even laughed once, at something he said about the penguins. He was feeling stupidly hopeful that maybe, just maybe, he could be forgiven for his role in today.

It was vain hope, but he held onto it, nonetheless, right up til the moment that they met Regina out at the front gate that evening. She pulled him aside as Henry and Emma were saying their goodbyes. "Do you have notes?" she asked him.

He swallowed, knowing that he'd have to come up with something here. "I'll, ah, get them to your mother by the end of the week," he told her. "I wrote in shorthand," he lied, "you wouldn't be able to make heads or tails of it right now."

Regina sighed affectedly. "Whatever," she muttered. "Fine, just be sure you get them to us as soon as possible, we'd like to get things underway quickly." She cast a glance to where Emma and Henry were hugging.

Killian felt a pang. He knew whatever choices he made in the next week were going to effect more than just him ... he had to proceed carefully. Hurting Emma or her son, even just collaterally, was not something he was willing to do. He felt protective of her, he wanted her safe, and cared for, he wanted her to have the things she desired.

He just ... wanted her. But more than that, he wanted her _happy_.

After Regina and Henry were gone, Killian hesitated only briefly before moving over to where Emma stood. She looked lost and forlorn, and he could tell she was fighting back tears. Against his better judgment, he reached out to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

As soon as he touched her, her head snapped up, her eyes flashing like green flames. She jerked away from his hand. "Don't touch me," she said, and her voice was very quiet and cold. He almost would have preferred it if she'd yelled. "I don't know what you're still doing here, but I don't want you to touch me. I don't want you to look at me. I don't want _anything _to do with you, do you understand me?"

"Emma ... " he began.

"Don't _Emma _me!" she exclaimed. "How dare you? How _dare _you? How long have you been working for them, huh? Has this all been part of the plan, all along? You ... you _befriended _me as some way to get information about me back to them?"

He was dumbfounded by her accusations now. It had not even occurred to him that it might look that way to her ... but now that she'd said it, he couldn't believe how stupid he'd been. It didn't make the words sting any less though. He'd thought that they'd had a sort of trust between them, he'd thought that ...

God, he didn't know what he'd thought.

And she wasn't finished.

"I bet you've had all kinds of things to tell them, too. Dumb Emma thinks she has prophetic dreams and is probably going crazy and hey, on top of everything, she goes and has feelings for the worst possible people ... "

She shook her head, and he could see that her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and all he wanted to do was _hold her_ and try and convince her that he was on her side, that he would always be on her side ... but she wouldn't let him. Not now, and not ever.

"It's not what you think, Emma ... I had no idea it would be you ... " Even as he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. "I owe them," he finished, his voice quieter now.

Her eyes snapped to his face. "Oh, that just makes it all better then, doesn't it? You were gonna go ruin someone else's life because _they _asked? And you owe them? What could you owe them? You're a priest, why do you have anything to do with them in the first place?" She shook her head. "I just don't understand. You're not who I thought you were at all ... and I guess that's on me, because I went ahead and stupidly thought ... "

"Thought what?" Killian asked, both terrified and desperate of the answer to that. "Emma, thought _what_?"

Emma shook her head, looking down. "Nothing. It doesn't matter now." She turned away then, starting to walk away.

He didn't know what madness came over him, maybe the madness of desperation, the madness to convince her that he wasn't what she thought of him ... he was the man she'd known from before, and he was on her side. He just wanted her to _believe _him.

He reached out as she started to walk away, his hand closing over her wrist. "Emma, _please_," he said, and even he knew he sounded slightly mad, but God help him, he couldn't let her walk away from him, not like this. If she walked away now, he knew it would be for the last time ... and the thought of that was unbearable.

"Let go," she whispered, but even as she said the words, she had already taken a step toward him. "Let go," she said again, her eyes flickering up to his face.

"I can't," he said, just as quietly. "Emma, it's not what you think."

"No, it's _exactly _what I think," she said, shaking her head, her expression one of absolute, exquisite sadness that made his heart ache just to look at.

Somehow they'd ended up closer, he didn't know if he'd pulled her to him inadvertantly or if she'd stepped closer of her own free will, all he knew was that they were close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, close enough that he could feel her trembling, ever so slightly. Close enough that he could smell her, lavender and something else, something that was just Emma, something that made him burn.

Somehow his fingertips were tracing over her cheekbone then, like he'd wanted to before, and somehow he was leaning in, or was that her? He heard her inhale sharply, felt her fingers curling in the front of his shirt. He could feel his heartbeat hammering wildly in his chest, and he knew everything about this was wrong, but he didn't care. He needed this, he needed to show her ... to make her understand.

"Emma," he whispered, his lips only a breath away from hers then.

It was enough though, that one word seemed to break the spell, or whatever the hell it was that had come over them, because suddenly she had jerked away from him so fast, you would've thought she'd been burned.

"What the _hell _are you doing?" she demanded then, taking several steps back, holding up her hand when he tried to step toward her again. "Don't. Just ... stay where you are. God, this is just perfect." She half-laughed, half-cried, throwing up her hands. "Well, there you go, _Father_," she spat scathingly then. "You have something else to add to your report. Slutty Emma, almost makes out with fucking _priests _in the parking lot." He could hear an edge of hysteria in her voice, and he would've done anything to make it go away, anything at all. "I'm gonna lose my kid, and it's all thanks to you. Thanks but no thanks." She shook her head, still backing away, and he knew better than to try and stop her this time. "We're done here. Stay away from me, I mean it. I don't want to see you any more. Ever."

The rain that had been threatening all day seemingly had waited for this moment, when he watched her walk away from him, unable to do _anything _to stop her, to start falling.


	6. One Another's Burdens

**A/N: I'm gonna let this one speak for itself. I apologize in advance, this one hurts the most of all of them so far.**

**Six**  
_**One Another's Burdens**_

_. . . whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things._

_Philippians 4:8_

Emma's hands shook as she tried to evenly apply her makeup, looking in the mirror at a woman she almost didn't recognize; not just because it had been a very long time since she'd seen any reason to put much effort into her appearance at all. Truth be told, she wasn't even sure how she'd gotten here in the first place.

It had been a week. One week since she'd had her monthly visit with Henry, one week since their day at the zoo. One week since she'd seen Killian, one week since she'd heard his voice, and damn it all to hell, she _missed _it. Which was a horrible, stupid, dumbass thing to be thinking, right now of all times.

But she couldn't help it. She had been _so sure _on Wednesday, after she'd decided not to go to the session, that he would show up, with the stupid false pretense of "worrying about her". She'd even forgone changing into her normal sweatpants after work that night, instead sitting around her apartment, like a complete moron, in nice jeans and a pretty blue sweater ... and it was then that she realized, as the clock had struck midnight, what an absolute idiot she was being.

He wasn't who he'd claimed to be. Sure, priest. But he wasn't the friend to her he'd sworn he'd wanted to be ... oh she'd seen that flicker of pain in his eyes when she'd called him out on the lies, but he was just another one in a long line of men who happened to be very good at lying to her.

She'd thought he was different. But he was the same as the rest of them. And maybe she'd thought, as naive as it was, that he was _safe_, because of who he was. _What _he was. Maybe that was why she'd latched herself to him so tightly. There wasn't any fear of things getting too intense ... at least, that's what she kept telling herself.

But she couldn't forget their last two encounters, no matter how hard she tried, and part of her knew that whatever it was that had driven him to the cloth - it hadn't been a Calling from God. It was something else, and she was sure that her dreams had hinted it to her. But finding out what it was, digging that deep, required something from her that she just didn't think she had it in her to give. She didn't think seeing him again was a good idea. Who knew what she'd end up saying ... doing ... feeling. She already felt too much.

And it was what had led her to where she was now ... standing in her bathroom, wearing a dress that cost more than she made in two weeks, and trying to put on her makeup in a way that didn't make her look ridiculous. She was nervous, truth be told, but not so much about the date itself ... more about the fact that she knew it meant something very different to her than it did to him, and it made a knot of disgust - at herself - form in her stomach.

On Thursday, she'd gone into work, after staying up far too late in the vain hope that maybe Killian would at least call her. She'd been reeling and little numb when she sought out Graham, apologizing for her weird behavior the past couple of weeks, trying her best to get things back to some sort of normalcy, at least in one part of her life.

He'd gone and been his normal understanding, sweet self, and in that moment, she'd had a flicker of ... what she thought at the time was an epiphany. Here was this great guy, and he was successful, and he was sweet, and handsome, and he was kind to her, and she thought maybe, just maybe she'd put her walls up so high that she was blocking out the chance at something that might be fantastic. Why _shouldn't _she let herself care about him?

Without really thinking it through, she'd found herself blurting out, "Do you still want to have dinner sometime?"

The way his face had lit up at that had made her feel like the scum of the earth, because for the barest, briefest breath of a second, she'd had a flash of what Killian's face might've looked like, had she asked him the same thing, and by the time the moment had passed, she'd realized she'd made a mistake.

But it was too late to take it back now, she couldn't very well say "Hah, sorry, just kidding, just wanted to see how you'd react, boy your face was _priceless_!" and Graham was already going on about some great little Italian place he knew and suddenly Emma just wanted to cry. Instead she found herself forcing a smile, that same one she'd been wearing as a mask for years now, nodding and feigning enthusiasm at their upcoming date.

Once he left her alone, she'd gone into the ladies' room and thrown up. Ruby had found her in there, and had been all sympathetic noises and had fussed over her like a mother chicken, before Emma finally just said she wasn't feeling very well. "I think I'm a terrible person," she told Ruby glumly.

Ruby had given her a reassuring smile, squeezing her around the shoulders. "You're not," she told her firmly, "but why don't you let me cover your shift, and you go home and rest?"

Emma hadn't wanted that, though. If she went home, it meant she'd be alone, and if she was alone, she might do something idiotic, like call her priest and confess to him that she was dating another man simply because she couldn't date _him_.

And how fucked up was that?

It wasn't as though she were any less mad at Killian than she had been, it was just that ... she was confused, and she didn't understand any of it ... she had really thought that they were ... well, whatever the hell a girl like her could be with a man like him, but it all felt like lies and it felt wrong to want to be with him ... but it felt wrong to be without him, too. She hadn't even dreamed of her pirate since that day at the zoo, and she wondered if that didn't herald him leaving her life for good.

The thought made her want to throw up again, but somehow, she held it in, somehow, she got through her shift. Graham had stopped her on her way out the door, so eager and earnest and happy about everything that Emma almost wanted to punch him. Instead she'd just smiled and said that she was excited about dinner, too, and then had sidestepped him and gone home.

She'd cried herself to sleep, the only time she ever allowed herself to cry at all these days it seemed. She could feel herself spiralling again, like she'd done all those years ago, before she'd gotten herself into the mess that had led her here in the first place, and it terrified her.

She did dream about her pirate that night, the first time since their fight, if you wanted to call it that ... but he offered no solace to her whatsoever. In her dream, she was in jail again, only this was a different sort of prison, it was dark, torchlit, a cell carved out of the ground, dirt and rock and decay surrounding her. And _he _stood on the other side of the bars, taunting her, holding something just out of her reach, something she couldn't see, but knew, somehow, was vitally important.

"This is a symbol," he was telling her, and his blue eyes were glittering coldly as he looked at her. "Of something that was once magical and full of hope, possibility. But now look at it." Emma couldn't even find words to say that she couldn't even see it, she felt as though she couldn't speak, every word he said was an arrow to her heart. "Dried up, dead, _useless_," he went on, leaning forward a bit, just like he'd done in the parking lot when she'd tried to walk away from him and he hadn't let her go. "Much like you."

In her mind, she was screaming, she was crying, she was arguing. "I'm not!" she wanted to shout, but no words came from her mouth as the dream continued.

"I am done with you," he finished then, his eyes on hers, as though he could see everything she'd ever done just by looking at her, as if he was judging her for every wrong, as if he knew exactly how terrible she was, and he was washing his hands of the whole matter.

And the worst part was, she didn't blame him at all.

"Wait!" she called out as he backed away from her, but the dream flashed then, and she was no longer in the cell. She was on that rainy city street, once more, and she heard the sound of car horn blasting behind her. She whirled, headlights blinding her as she did, and she didn't have time to move out of the way. She screamed just as she heard the screech of the brakes, and somewhere, in the distance, she heard a man's voice crying out.

"Help me!"

She'd woken up shaking, crying, with an urge for a fix more overwhelming than it had been in nearly a year and a half. Her hand was groping for her phone, and when she hit the button on it, the light blinded her momentarily, and it reminded her of her dream. With a gasp, she tossed it away from her, not even caring where it landed.

She'd stumbled from her bed into the bathroom, splashing water on her face and glaring at the reflection looking back at her. "I'm done with me, too," she muttered, shaking her head, making up her mind to tell Graham she'd made a mistake - she couldn't do this, she couldn't bear the guilt of knowing that it wasn't him she really wanted, and she couldn't bear the shame of facing what she really did want.

Graham hadn't even let her get a word out when she went to talk to him before work the next day, Friday. "Emma, stop," he'd told her as she stepped just inside his office. "I get it, you know. I know you think you're clever and sneaky, but everyone around here knows that there was a guy ... Mr. Wednesday Night," he said, giving her a look as she shifted a little uncomfortably.

"But that's not - " she started, before he brought his finger to his lips, effectively shushing her.

"I'm not asking you to marry me, Emma," Graham went on, giving her an amused smile. "Obviously whatever happened with ... what's his name ... left a bad impression on you. Let me fix that. It's one dinner," he said, leaning forward in his chair a bit, hands clasped in front of him as he regarded her, standing in the doorway. "You might actually enjoy yourself, you know."

Emma shook her head. "I ... I just don't want to ... "

"Enough. It's dinner. We don't even have to call it a date," Graham told her. "Just dinner. Just _friends _having dinner. I mean, you gotta eat anyway, right?"

Emma managed a wan smile at that, not really feeling any better about the whole thing, but knowing there was no way she was getting out of it at this point. "I guess so," she mumbled. She shook her head, sighing then. "I mean, yeah. You're right. It'll be great." She managed a brighter smile then, before ducking out of his office.

And now that it was Saturday, Emma really wasn't sure how she was supposed to go through with this at all. There was no way it was "just dinner", no matter how much Graham insisted that it was. He'd been in a great mood all week, all smiles and whistling as he worked about the bar, and Emma knew why that was, and it made her feel just awful.

There was a knock at her door then, and she picked up her phone, checking the time in a panic. I was two hours before he was supposed to pick her up, there was no way he was that early - was there? She wasn't even ready, and besides that, she needed those two hours to bolster herself.

With a feeling of trepidation in her gut as she padded barefoot to the door, she opened the door slowly, peeking out around the corner.

What - _who _- she saw brought her up cold.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" She refused to open the door any further.

"Nice greeting. You gonna make me stand out here?"

"Depends on what the hell you want," Emma retorted coldly, looking back into the face she'd known - and loved - for several years, back when she was much younger. "Is Henry okay? Because that's really the only thing that would bring you down from your ivory tower to come slum it with me."

"Emma, stop being crazy."

"Fuck off, Neal," Emma said, starting to close the door. He put his foot in between the door and the jamb and Emma really had to fight the urge to not try to break his foot. "Seriously?" she asked, looking up at him and blinking incredulously.

"Emma, Jesus, I just need to talk to you. It _does _concern Henry, and I know that will interest you. Let me in."

Emma rolled her eyes, sighing heavily, before finally opening the door wider, ushering him to come inside. "Better make this fast," she muttered.

Neal flicked his eyes over her appraisingly, and it was then that Emma remembered the small little detail of being dressed for her not-a-date date. "Well. Look at you," he said.

"_Don't _look at me," Emma retorted. "What the hell are you here for? I'm guessing Regina doesn't know you're here, because she'd probably burn you at the stake for it."

"No, actually, she doesn't know," Neal said, moving into her living room and looking around, before turning back to face her again. "And she's not going to. If she and her mother can go behind my back where it concerns _my _son ... "

"_Our _son," Emma bit off, glaring.

"That's why I'm here," Neal told her, shaking his head and sighing heavily. "It's about the new person on your case."

"Kill - Father Jones?" Emma said, recovering quickly, a little shocked that this was the reason Neal was here. "You know him?"

"Father?" Neal said incredulously. "As in, _priest_? Son of a bitch, _that's_ what he's been doing."

Emma looked at him blankly. "Um, what in the hell are you talking about, Neal?"

"I don't want that bastard around my kid," Neal said sharply then. "I don't want him around _anybody_. I still don't know how the fuck he managed to stay out of prison, but I won't have him around Henry."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but I don't actually have any control over who gets assigned to the cases," Emma said, crossing her arms in front of her. "Are you just going to babble incoherently at me, or are you actually going to tell me what your problem with him is?"

"Oh, I know who's behind him being on the case, I just don't know _why_," Neal said. "I figure it's gotta go hand-in-hand somehow, him not going to prison and now him magically working for Cora."

"Okay, so you're sticking with babbling incoherently, great, is this going to take long because I actually have plans."

Neal finally looked back at her, as though just now remembering that she was there. "Emma, look, all we have to do is call this number. We can be anonymous, whatever. Just file some sorta complaint against the guy. Say he was innappropriate, say we caught him doing something with an altar boy, really, just make something up that gets him shipped the fuck out of here and to some remote region in Alaska that nobody's ever heard of."

Emma gaped at him. "No!" she snapped. "I'm not going to ... why would I do that to him ... and you're not doing anything either! That's appalling, what the _fuck _is the matter with you?"

"Why would you do that to him," Neal repeated back to her flatly. "Emma look at me."

"Why?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, not you too," Neal said, shaking his head in disgust.

"Not me too what?" Emma asked.

"You've got that same goddamn look in your eyes that Milah had ... "

"_What_?" Emma felt her blood go cold then, as she remembered her dream from before, the one where Neal's sister, Milah, had made an appearance. Had that actually been ... was there _truth _to that?

"Milah fell in love with him, and she died, because of him. He killed her."

"I thought Milah died in an accident," Emma said, hugging her arms tighter around her.

"It was his fucking fault!" Neal said. "He was a cocky little shit, drunk all the time, but charming enough to get away with it. He and Milah met at this bar she used to go to, he was just over from Ireland, and well, Milah hated everything about living here. Took one look at him and saw her ticket out. After knowing him for a grand total of about eight days, she decided to run off with him. We didn't hear a word from her for over a year, while she was off, traipsing around with this guy, God knows where they went and what they did.

"One day, outta the blue, she shows back up, acting like nothing had happened. He was with her ... they'd gotten married and they came back to make amends. At first it actually seemed like it was going to be okay, but as the day went on, you could see the cracks. He was pissed - both literally and figuratively - and he kept drinking all day. He was angry with Milah about something, and she was angry right back. They snapped and sniped at each other constantly, though they tried to do it in a way that looked like they were just bickering.

"It was later, when my mother jokingly said something about grandkids that the shit hit the fan. Killian got exceptionally pissed off, and started to leave. Milah told him he was too drunk, and he basically told her to fuck off, right there in front of the family. She chased out after him, I remember it was raining that night, but you could hear them screaming at each other over the sound of the rain. Don't know what happened after that, all I know is that his car was wrapped around a tree about five miles from the house, and he was fine, but she was dead. I don't even know why she got in the car with him, I don't know what he said to her or did to her, but there is no reason that Milah would have ever done something that stupid. He blew about ten times over the legal limit when they tested him at the scene, he was hauled off, and he should be in prison today, but he's not, and I don't want him around my kid. And _you _shouldn't want that either."

Emma didn't know why, after all these years, Neal was telling her all this now. When she'd first met him, he'd already been pretty deep into the stuff that would end up ruining her own life ... she supposed at the time, she'd been looking for her own ticket out ... just out of the system, devoid of anyone who gave a shit about her at all, and there had been Neal. And at first, the life he lived had seemed thrilling, but over time, it became her own personal hell. When she had ended up in prison because of a house raid - where he had left her to go with some other friends - he had gotten himself straightened up. She was not so lucky, and maybe that was why she didn't see things the way he did.

"You don't know what happened that night, so how can you possibly presume that ... "

"Emma, don't be this fucking stupid," Neal said, and she could hear the exasperation in his voice. "You really gonna blame Milah?"

"I'm not blaming _anybody_, but I don't think that writing someone off as a lost cause is ... "

"He ruined her life. He fucking killed her. What more is there to know, Emma?" Neal practically spat at her.

"The other side of the story, maybe?"

"I won't have this," Neal said, throwing up his hands. "I came to you, because I thought, where our son was concerned, you'd be on my side about this. But if you want to ruin your own goddamn life, fine. Just don't drag my son down with you. One way or the other, I'll have this done with."

"Is that some sort of threat?" Emma retorted hotly.

"You've made your decision here, Emma, but I will not sit idly by and just let this happen."

"The only thing happening is that _your _wife and _your _mother-in-law want to take _my _son from me!" Emma shouted then.

"Well, you're making the case against you pretty strong." Neal stalked toward the door then, leaving Emma aghast in his wake.

Finally, she found the wherewithal to follow after him, just as he was reaching for the doorknob. "Now wait just a goddamn minute!" she cried in the same moment Neal pulled the door open, revealing Killian, poised with his hand ready to knock.

"What the fuck?" Neal said then, looking back and forth between Emma and Killian.

Emma's eyes were huge and she felt as though she were about to be lost at sea. She floundered, having no idea what to say or do. "Neal, I had no ... he ... Killian what the fuck are you doing here?"

"I ... came to apologize ... " Killian said slowly, his eyes moving between Emma and Neal, and back to Emma again. "I see this is a bad time."

"You couldn't have _called_?" Emma asked, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Would you have answered if I did?" Killian said, and she could see that he desperately wanted to move past Neal, who was watching the two of them intently.

"You _cannot _be here right now," Emma said. "For that matter, you can't be here at all!"

"Why don't you fucking leave, like the lady asked?" Neal said then, and that's when a look of understanding dawned on Killian's face.

She saw a flash in his eyes that she'd never seen from him before, she saw years of pent up rage and anger and _hurt _there. "What the hell did you tell her?" Killian said, and Emma almost jumped at the sheer amount of agony she heard in his voice when he yelled.

"What she needed to know, so she wouldn't be just another woman who threw their life away over the likes of you," Neal spat back.

"Oh, right, because you did such a bang-up job of making her life so _magical _when you were part of it," Killian retorted, and his voice was cold. Emma recognized that sort of coldness. It was what you got before someone snapped.

"No," Emma said then, moving faster than she knew she was capable, putting herself between the two men and forcibly shoving them both back. "_Stop it_. You are not doing this, and you are most definitely not doing it here." She glared at Neal first. "I don't need you to try and be the hero here. I don't need you to ride in on your white horse and pretend like you're going to try and fix everything that you broke to begin with. My life is my business and you don't get a say in it any more."

She turned to Killian then, and if it was possible, she could feel her bitterness, her pain, her ire only growing when she looked at him. She saw hurt and his own anger reflecting back at her, and it was an awful feeling, knowing that she was looking into a mirror of her soul in that moment. Part of her wanted to burst into tears and just hold him, because she knew what it was like to be broken, and maybe their broken pieces might actually fit together and make a whole.

But the other part of her just wanted him to go. She didn't want to look at him and know _exactly _what he was, because it wasn't fair. And she couldn't have him, and this was only going to hurt them both if it continued.

"And you," she finally said, her voice wavering even as it snapped out at him. "I told you that I didn't want to see you again."

"Emma ... " he began, and she knew he was going to reach for her, and so help her God ...

She clenched her eyes shut. "Shut up," she breathed. "I told you I didn't want to see you again," she repeated, finally opening her eyes again, finding his and holding his gaze. "And I meant it. I want you to go. Don't come back. Ever."

"Emma?"

Oh, fuck. She'd completely forgotten. She looked up then, tearing her eyes from Killian's, and managed a small smile at Graham. "Hey!" she said, as brightly as she could. "Right on time. Just let me get my shoes and we can go."

"You have a date?" Killian breathed it so lowly that she knew she was the only one to hear him. Her eyes flickered over to his for the briefest of seconds before she looked away, unable to bear what it was she saw in his eyes.

She grabbed her heels and her purse from just inside her door, before sighing and turning back to the three men that now stood outside her apartment. "Party's over. Get the hell out of here."

She looked to Graham then, pointedly avoiding Neal, and most especially Killian. She knew there'd be a billion questions that Graham would want answered, but now was not the time, nor the place. And for the first time since she'd accepted the date, she was glad of it. It got her out of here, and maybe, maybe, it would serve to sever these impossible ties she had with her impossible ... Killian. She managed a brighter smile at Graham then, even though she felt the pain in her heart at doing it. "Let's go."

Neal stepped out of her way without any further incident, and she was glad of that. But when she moved past Killian, she felt his fingertips ghost over her wrist, almost as if he meant to grab her and stop her from going.

Part of her wanted him to. A smaller part of her was relieved when he didn't. She made the mistake of glancing to him once more as she walked past him, and she swore she saw him mouth the words, "Don't go."


	7. Kingdom Come

**A/N: **To borrow somebody I love's catchphrase - #BOOM.

(This chapter is nearly 6000 words long, and this is also where the rating changes and um also I'm not finished hurting you guys but hey, hope you like this one at least.)

_**Seven**_**  
Kingdom Come ...**

_I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine.  
__Song of Solomon 6:3__  
_

Killian didn't know what he'd expected to happen, when he'd shown up at Emma's door that evening, but it certainly wasn't _that_. He'd gone to see her, wanting to apologize, wanting to try and make some sort of amends with her. He knew he should've left well enough alone ... there as no need to try and force her to speak to him, but it was important to him that she know ... he hadn't sold her out. He'd taken an official copy of the report he'd sent to Judge Mills to show her.

He'd ended up just dropping it on her doorstep after she was gone. She'd see it ... whenever she got home.

There was a bar, just a block or so away from Emma's apartment. He could go there, he told himself, nobody down in this part of town even knew who he was. He could go there, and he could make himself forget everything; he could go there, and he wouldn't have to think at all. Sod the fact that he'd be throwing nearly nine years sobriety out the window, sod the fact that he'd be going back on every promise he'd ever made to himself.

Sod it all.

It wasn't as though he hadn't been lying this entire bloody time, anyway. He was no priest. He was no man of God. He wasn't even worthy of this so-called "second chance" he thought he'd been giving himself, when he took the plea bargain that kept him out of prison. He was a selfish bastard for wishing that Emma be alone, that she never look in the direction of another, that she foreswear men entirely, that she only belong to him ... even if it was possession only in his mind.

It didn't matter now, anyway. Neal had clearly told her the only version of the story that mattered, and it was better that way. Let her think the worst of him, let her go on with her life, she'd be happier for it.

Happier with _him_.

Killian did not need to know anything about the man that had shown up to know that he hated him, with every fiber of his being, with every breath in his lungs. He hated him for the way that Emma had smiled at him, hated him for the way she so eagerly gone with him, without even a hesitation, even when Killian had _asked _her not to.

He hated him for the little red dress Emma had been wearing for him, hated him for the blonde curls he would doubtless be running his fingers through by the end of the evening ... Killian wondered if her eyelids would flutter, if her breath would catch in her throat, the way it had when _he _had almost kissed her. He wondered if she'd push that man away, the way she'd done with him. Or would she succumb to her loneliness, finally, and let someone in ...

It should be _him _with her now, _he _should be the one who got to touch her, kiss her, elicit all manner of little sounds from her throat. It should be _him_ who tangled his fingers in her long hair, who pulled the zipper of that dress down, who tossed it aside, who buried himself in her, again and again and _again _...

It should be _him_.

Killian's hand gripped the door handle until his knuckles turned white. He hadn't even realized he'd arrived at the bar, but he was there, and he was about to go inside, regardless of the fact that he had no business being anywhere but back at the rectory, alone. Alone was all he was ever meant to be, had he learned _nothing _by now? The fact that he was painfully, maddeningly jealous of a man he didn't even know was proof of that.

Emma had smiled at the man, she'd been _happy _to see him. If Killian was any kind of decent human being at all, he would want that for her. He should want her to find her joy, he should want her to move on from the misery of her past. He shouldn't want to drag her down into Hell with him, but God help him, he felt like he was drowning all over again without her.

He inhaled shakily, stepping back from the door to the bar, his hands up, almost as though he were surrendering. He didn't know where he was going ... not back to the rectory, he couldn't bear being in that small, cheerless room alone right now ... but he couldn't go into that bar, either. There'd be no saving him if he did that, no matter how easy it would be to lose himself in there, to forget everything, even if only for a few hours. He'd done plenty of that after Milah had died ... he couldn't do it again.

And though Emma wasn't _dead_, she might as well have been, as far as he was concerned. The loss felt the same; it was the loss of that little spark of hope she'd embodied, and now everything was dark again.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, turning and walking in the opposite direction, no real destination in mind, he just needed to move, needed to walk, needed to go. He walked down alone the river, not caring about the fact that it was late, and dark, and this wasn't exactly the safest of neighborhoods. Emma lived down here, and somehow she managed, and he would too.

And if he didn't ... well, he really didn't care.

He walked for hours, just mindless wandering, trying not to think of how different his life might've turned out. He liked to think he would've had a family by now ... but then again, maybe not.

Milah hadn't wanted children. People usually knew that about potential life partners before they got married to them, but things with Milah had happened so fast, and at the time, it had seemed thrilling, exciting. He'd always had that wanderlust in him, leading him from place to place, never really stopping to catch his breath anywhere. His mother had always joked that he must've been swapped out for a trickster when he was very young, for certainly no son of hers would ever be so ill-content to just _stay put_. Milah had been just as free-spirited as he was, and they had seemed the perfect match, and they'd been happy, very happy.

Until a little pink plus sign changed all that.

Killian had been ecstatic, which had come to a surprise, even to him. But he'd been thinking of settling down, staying in one place for a while ... to him this was the perfect opportunity. But Milah had been upset. Every time he'd talked about maybe staying put before that, she'd changed the subject, quickly finding some other reason to go some other place, and he'd only wanted to make her happy.

But when she told him she didn't want to keep the baby ... she didn't even want to _have _the baby ... he couldn't stay silent any longer. Things hadn't gone well after that; they fought constantly, over everything, neither of them wanting to just come out and admit what the real problem was.

He'd brought her back home then, hoping that maybe being around her family would make her reconsider, but it only made her angrier, which in turn, made him drink more, just to get through the day.

It had all come to a head when her mother had made the mistake of asking them about grandkids. Killian hadn't been able to sit there and listen to Milah make excuses, knowing full well she was pregnant and planning on getting rid of it, so he'd gotten up to leave. To _leave _leave. It had been pouring rain that night, and he'd stomped out into the storm, heedless of everything, but knowing that this was not the life he thought he had signed up to have.

She had chased after him, yelling at him to get back inside, saying he'd had too much to drink and he didn't know what the fuck he was doing. He'd told her if she wanted to go ahead and kill their child, he wasn't going to have any part of it, and he remembered how he'd stumbled a bit as he made his way down the steps toward where the car was parked ... he didn't realize at the time he'd blacked out for a few minutes.

He was in no fit shape for driving, but he didn't care.

He hadn't even known she'd gotten in the car. He'd thought she'd gone back inside, and it wasn't til she was screaming from the backseat, seconds before the impact, that he'd even known she was there.

He never found out what had possessed her that night. He always just assumed it was because he knew that she knew he was leaving. He hadn't had plans to come back.

And now, because of what had happened, he had never left.

He didn't even know why he was dragging himself through these memories, through this pain again, except somehow, the dull pain of the accident took his mind off the present. And it made him feel even more like a piece of shit for thinking like that.

But he'd seen Emma with her son, he'd seen the light in her eyes, the smile on her face, the way she loved the lad, more than she loved herself. He'd seen the heartbreak in her eyes when she'd had to let him go, and it had enraged him. She'd been through the pits of Hell already, she deserved something she didn't have to fight for, something that could be hers, no questions, no strings attached.

He wanted desperately to be the one to give that to her, as impossible a notion as it was. He'd already ruined his own life, and taken Milah's and his child's ... all because he hadn't just fought a little bit harder for it.

"A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets." It was something his father had said to him, growing up, and though he'd strived to be a fighter, all his life ... the words were words he'd not fully understood.

Until he'd met Emma.

He wanted to fight for her, God help him, he would go through the flames if it meant giving her what she wanted, what she deserved.

He'd walked longer than he'd intended, longer than he'd realized, and the very edges of the sky were lightening, streaks of pink on the horizon as he turned the corner, finding himself, somehow, back at the cathedral, though he hadn't even realized he'd pointed his feet in this direction.

But he'd gotten through this night, somehow, he'd made it, and he hadn't succumbed to the things that wished to drag him under. It felt like something to be thankful for, it felt like maybe Providence had shown Killian Jones favor at last. He made his way up the stairs, pulling open the door and thinking he might light a candle to St. Jude, patron of lost causes.

The sanctuary was not empty, however, though it was barely five a.m. There was someone sitting in the front row of pews, head bowed. The light was dim inside the room, the stained glass darkening the area even more. He held back in the doorway, not wanting to intrude. Whatever would bring a person here at this hour was something that he had no business being part of.

It didn't seem to matter, however, because the person's head raised slightly when he tried to close the door as quietly as he could. "Sorry, I know I'm probably not supposed to be here right now." The voice that spoke then made his heart all but stop in his chest.

He should go. He should leave and not say a thing, because there was nothing good that would come from him speaking to her right now. "It's quite all right, lass," he said softly, going directly against his better judgment, because he simply could not help himself when it came to her. "The Church is here for anyone who needs it, at any time."

Her head shot up then, and he could see that her curls from the previous evening had been tossed up into a messy sort of ponytail. She gave a derisive snort of laughter then, and he could see her shake her head in the dim light, as he walked slowly between the rows of pews, approaching her, but not wanting to get too close.

"Christ, is there any place I can go where you _won't _show up?" she sighed heavily.

"You've come to the Church where I work, love," he said, not raising his voice, no accusation in his tone at all.

"I'm not your love," she snapped, and she was on her feet then.

She had changed, he noted, no longer wearing the red dress ... though what it all meant, he couldn't be sure. The fact that she was here, so early, could mean so many things ... so many things he didn't want to think about. She didn't look like she'd slept at all ... again, not something he wanted to contemplate the reasoning behind. But she was wearing jeans now, ripped ones, and a thin purple cardigan over a plain white camisole. She had a small black purse looped around her shoulder and she was clutching a manila envelope in her hand.

He inhaled sharply, recognizing the envelope as the one he'd left on her doorstep. "What are you doing here right now?" he asked her then, taking another careful step toward her.

"Why are _you _here?" she shot back, her eyes flashing as she finally looked at him.

He gestured to the pew she'd been sitting in. "Same reason as you, I'd wager," he told her. "I've come to pray."

Emma let out a shaky bark of laughter then. "It's funny, really, because I don't pray. I don't even know what possessed me to come down here ... but that's just it. I feel like I've been possessed. Because this isn't me. I don't ... do this church thing, and I don't believe in this God who's never shown me any favor or cut me any breaks at all and I sure as _hell _don't know why I would come to a place where I know there's a reason I might see you, because I don't _want _to see you."

"You haven't slept," he told her, a statement, not a question, pointedly sidestepping her words, knowing they were sitting on a powderkeg right now, and he wasn't about to strike the match. "But you've been home, because you've changed."

"You're a fine one to talk. You look like shit, when's the last time you shaved?"

He ignored the way her eyes flickered over his face, the way she didn't address his unasked question that he wasn't even sure he _wanted _the answer to. He nodded at the envelope in her hand then. "I see you found what I left you."

Emma's hand tightened around the envelope then. "Yeah, I did," she said coldly. "What the hell is this, is this some kind of joke?"

Killian's brow furrowed in confusion then. "No ... it's ... Emma. I'm trying to _help _you." He took another step toward her, his hand reaching out of its own volition. She stepped back, curling her arms around herself, that same defensive position he'd seen a million times from her in the past, but it hurt seeing it now, seeing it used as she tried to defend herself from him.

"_Stop_. Don't _help _me. Stop playing God. I don't need you to save me!" Her voice broke then, and even in the darkness of the sanctuary now, he could see the tears brimming in her eyes. Her hand shook as she held up the envelope. "I can't _do _this any more," she told him through gritted teeth. "It's like ... it's like I can't _breathe _any more when you're not with me, and the only time anything feels right at all is when you're around and that's _wrong_, it's all _wrong_."

"Emma ... "

"No!" she said, holding up her other hand. "You don't get to talk right now, because I'm not fucking finished."

Her eyes met his then, and he could see the tears slipping down her cheeks, and all he wanted to do was brush them away with his thumbs, to pull her into his arms and kiss her until neither of them could remember what it was they were doing here in the first place. But he did nothing, he just stood there, waiting for her to continue.

"I should not be here right now. I should be home ... or you know, _not _home. There's this guy who is wonderful, who is sweet and funny and handsome and he treats me like I'm way better than I actually am, and he really likes me. And he's everything that I should want, and everything I should have ... but I was sitting at dinner with him and I was wishing that he was someone else."

Killian's hands balled into fists at his sides then. "Emma ... "

"Graham, the guy I was with tonight ... he is perfect in every way." Emma shook her head, sighing heavily. "He's probably the right guy. The one you settle down with and have a family with and make a life with - he's that guy. And I took him home with me last night, because I was ready ... I was so ready to be with the right guy, finally."

Killian gritted his teeth as she spoke, not sure why she was telling him this, unless she meant to hurt him. And it was working. He didn't want to hear the rest of this story, he didn't want to know, he could already picture it in his head, and God he didn't want to. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to kill this other man, this Mr. Right of hers. "Emma, I don't want to ... "

"Not finished," she breathed out, looking down, more tears slipping down her cheeks. "He ... he kissed me, and that's when I stepped on your stupid envelope." She looked back at him. "I pushed him away and I told him to leave. And you know what? He didn't even ask, he didn't get angry, he didn't demand answers, he just left. See? Right guy." She shook her head, her voice lowering to a barely audible whisper. "Right guy, but not the _one_."

Killian inhaled sharply at her words then, his eyes searching her face for some sign of what he should do next, but her expression gave nothing away, and he found that he couldn't make himself move.

"I hate you," she said quietly then. "I _hate _you. I hate that we met, I hate that I let you get to me, I hate that I can't stop thinking about you, I hate that you _are _the one. And mostly I hate you for being here, but not really here." She gestured around the sanctuary then. "Because you don't belong here. You're _hiding_. And you're lying, and you're too much of a damn coward to just admit that."

"You don't understand," Killian started, but Emma just shook her head.

"I'm not an idiot. I'm not dumb enough or naive enough to think that what Neal told me was all there is to the story. But I'm not asking you to tell me either, because it doesn't matter, not right now. That's the past, and this is now, and you have this chance ... this chance to actually be _part _of something ... you could be part of the world, but you hide in here, and you use it as your shield and it's bullshit."

Emma stepped forward then, her gaze lifting to meet his, and there was a look in her eyes that he'd never seen there before, it was a look that went straight through him, a look that made him burn.

"You have a choice to make here, Killian. I'm not making it for you, and I'm not going to be your pet project in your self-imposed atonement mission. I want more than that, and I think that you do too."

She was gone before he could say anything, gone before he could even reach for her, she was just gone, so quickly he wondered if he hadn't just hallucinated that she was even there at all. He sank down into the pew she'd been sitting in burying his head in his hands and willing himself not to break down.

He didn't know how long he sat there, long enough for the morning sunlight to begin to filter through the stained glass. He could still smell her perfume, lingering in the air as he sat in the same spot she had sat in. It smelled like lavender, it permeated his senses, and he was on his feet before he could talk himself out of it.

She hadn't slept with that other man. She hadn't done it because of _him_. She said she hated him, but Killian understood more than the words she said, the meaning behind them.

He had an entire cab ride to talk himself out of it. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was the wrong thing to be doing, to even be _thinking_, but he also knew that she was right. He'd been burying his head for nearly a decade, he'd been pretending that he was living the life he wanted, but it had all been a lie.

Everything he'd done had been a lie, until he'd met Emma.

He was ready to fight for something, and if he didn't start now, he knew he would never. He pounded on her door, knowing there was every chance she'd come home and gone to sleep, but he didn't care, he'd wait out here all day for her if he had to.

He didn't have to.

She opened the door, and she was still dressed - she hadn't been sleeping. She didn't say anything, and neither did he, both of them just looked at each other for a long moment.

"Killian ... ? " Emma began, but he didn't let her finish.

He reached out, taking her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks softly. "I think about you all the time," he breathed out, "I dream about you, I can't bloody think straight because all that's here is you." He crashed his lips against hers, no illusions of gentleness in the way he kissed her right now. This was need, it was pure and it was desperate, and it would not be denied.

Emma gasped, her lips parting beneath his, and he took advantage of that, his tongue sweeping out along her bottom lip. He felt her tongue slide out to tangle with his, and a low growl escaped his throat then. He took a step forward, then another, still kissing her, his hands still cupping her face, backing her into her apartment, using his foot to kick the door shut behind him.

"Emma," he rasped out, tearing his lips away from hers only briefly, his eyes hooded as he looked at her, taking in the way her lips were red and swollen from his kisses, the darker shade of blue her eyes had become. "Tell me you want me to go," he breathed raggedly. "Tell me to stop and I shall."

And he meant it. If she ordered him from here, he would go, no matter how much it pained him, he would do it. His heart was pounding rapidly as he realized that there was every possibility she would do just that. That he had severely overstepped his bounds here, and that he'd gone and ruined everything. He watched her as she looked at him, his eyes drifting to her lips once more, then down to her throat. He could see her pulse jumping there, and he longed to press his lips against it, finally, but he would wait, wait for her to say ...

"Don't go," Emma whispered, her fingers finding their way into his hair as she pulled him back to her, her lips seeking his once more. "I don't want you to stop."

It was all he wanted to hear. Her fingers were still in his hair, and he could feel the same hunger in her kiss that he felt when he slanted her mouth over hers again. "Emma," he whispered, trailing his lips along her jawline then, his hands moving to her hips, sliding up her sides, under the cardigan she wore, but over the camisole.

She tilted her head back, a soft sigh escaping her lips. God, he'd dreamed of this moment so many times since meeting her, but nothing had prepared him for the actuality of how she would feel in his arms, the way her skin would taste, the sounds she would make for him ...

He pushed the cardigan off her shoulders then, tossing it aside haphazardly as he let one hand go behind her neck then, fingers tangling in those blonde tresses of hers that had haunted him for months now. His lips still brushed against her neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses along the long column of skin. His tongue laved over her skin, his free hand pushing the strap of her camisole down her shoulder then, lips following where his fingertips touched.

Emma arched against him, the soft sighs she'd made before giving way to a moan, the sound making him all the more desperate to have her. "_Killian_," she gasped, fingers tugging lightly at his hair.

He smirked a little at the sound, a jolt of male satisfaction ricocheting through him. He raised his head then, lips seeking hers again, kissing her fiercely. "God, I love it when you say my name, lass," he whispered in her ear then, and he felt her shiver in his arms when he nipped at her earlobe.

His hands slid back down her sides then, and then around, cupping her backside and pulling her flush against him. He groaned a little at the friction created, the jeans he wore becoming more uncomfortable by the minute. "You want this?" he breathed, lips still near her ear. "Emma, tell me you want me."

Emma exhaled shakily, nodding her head almost fervently. "Yes ... _yes_, Killian, I want ... "

"You want _what_?" he whispered, tongue flicking over the shell of her ear.

"_You_," she breathed raggedly. "Please, I ... I just want you." Her eyes found his again, her expression earnest. "Always ... I've always wanted you."

He kissed her again, softer this time, but no less passionately, pulling her away from the wall now. As much as he would have liked to have taken her then and there ... this was a woman who deserved better than that for a first time. He would give her better, even if this was the only chance he ever got.

_Especially _if it was his only chance with her.

The bed seemed entirely too far away, but the sofa was right there, so he led her to it, kissing her again as he slowly pressed her back against it, lowering himself above her as he did. Her fingers were already working at the buttons on his own shirt, a small smirk playing on her lips when she tugged at his collar. "I think we need to get rid of this," she breathed against his lips as she tossed it away.

"Aye, that we do," he murmured in response, shaking his arms free of his shirt once she had it unbuttoned, letting it fall where it would. He turned his attentions back to her then, one hand lightly brushing over her face, while his other hand moved to the waistband of her jeans. Her hands moved in response, to the buckle on his belt, but he stopped her, pressing her hand back against her side. "Not yet, love," he told her. "You first."

Emma's brow furrowed a bit then, her eyes watching him as he slowly slid her pants down her hips and legs until she was free of them. He kissed her again then, his tongue tracing along the outline of her lips, while his hands skimmed along her sides, just under her camisole. He trailed his lips down her neck again, over her collarbone, brushing light kisses along the swell of her breasts, just above the neckline of her shirt. Emma's eyes fluttered closed and she exhaled shakily, one hand delving into his thick hair.

One of his hands moved then to the junction of her thighs, fingers teasing her through the fabric of her underwear. Her lips parted in a silent "oh" shape, and she arched ever-so-slightly against his hand, her fingers tightening in his hair.

"My God, you are beautiful," Killian whispered, watching her face with a sort of awestruck expression on his own. The fingers of his free hand pushed her camisole up, revealing her stomach to him, and he moved himself lower down her body, his lips brushing over the skin just above the waisband of her underwear.

Emma inhaled sharply then, and he could feel the tremble of her thighs when he skimmed his hand down them. He moved his other fingers away from her, earning a soft whimper from her, to which he smirked. "Patience," he growled softly against her skin, teeth tugging at the waistband of her underwear then, pulling them down her hips, before letting his fingers divest her of them completely.

"Killian!" she gasped when his fingers returned to her, with no barrier between her and his touch now. He groaned a little at the way she felt, his lips brushing over her inner thigh before finally seeking out her most sensitive of spots. She arched against his lips then, a cry escaping her throat that made him want her just that much more, if it were even possible. But first ... he would have her come completely apart for him.

He'd been nearly a decade without having a woman, but it didn't mean he'd forgotten everything ... and this was no ordinary woman. This was _Emma_, and he'd dreamed of this moment too many times to treat it - or her - with anything less than the utmost respect and attention. She deserved to be treated like something precious, like something sacred, because to him, she _was_. She was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that made him feel like he was worth anything at all.

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer to his mouth as his tongue worked over her, loving the little sounds she made. One hand moved again, fingers joining his lips to bring her to the edge. He wanted - no, _needed _- to see her in that moment, he needed to know what Emma looked like when she came undone, and knowing it was because of him only made it better.

Emma gave a whimpering moan then, seemingly beyond words right now, except for the few times she breathed out his name, which was possibly the most beautiful sound he had heard in a very long time. He growled against her as he felt her inner muscles starting to squeeze around his fingers just moments before she cried out, back completely arching up off the sofa.

"Killian!" she gasped, fingers tugging roughly at his hair. "Oh, _God_."

He smirked a little against her, pressing his lips against her inner thigh, before kissing his way back up her body, dragging the camisole up to rid her of it completely as he did. He sucked in a breath once she was completely naked beneath him. "Beautiful," he whispered, hands sliding up her sides once more, over the curve of her breasts. "You are gorgeous, Emma," he told her, his eyes meeting hers as his thumbs brushed over her nipples.

Emma bit her lip, looking up at him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining. "Is it your turn now?" she whispered, her voice a little ragged and shaky.

He gave her a lopsided grin, leaning in and brushing his lips gently over hers. "If you still want this ... "

"Yes," Emma breathed out, almost relieved, her fingers moving to his belt once more, but this time, he didn't stop her as she pushed his pants down his legs. He stood long enough to remove them completely, before he was back above her.

He looked down at her then, eyes searching her face. "Did you mean what you said, Emma?" he asked her then, his voice low. "Do you hate me?"

Emma cast her eyes down, and his own eyes followed the column of her throat, his fingertips brushing lightly over the place her pulse jumped. "No," she finally breathed out. "And yes." She cast her eyes back to his face. "I never wanted ... to fall in love again."

His eyes snapped back to hers at her words. "_Emma _... " he whispered.

She shook her head then. "No, don't say anything," she said, her arms going around his neck, pulling him closer. "Just don't. I don't know why you're here ... I don't know what it means ... it doesn't have to mean anything right now, it doesn't. Just _be _here. Just be _with _me. Just for today, nothing else matters."

He leaned in then, kissing her, gentle at first, but he could feel the heat spreading throughout him when she tilted her head, deepening the kiss, letting her tongue slide out over his bottom lip. His hands slid down to her hips, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He growled against her lips as he slowly thrust forward, savoring each moment, each sensation, the way she felt as she surrounded him, completely and totally and at last.

"_Emma_," he groaned, knowing that in this moment, he had found heaven - or as close to it as he was ever like to get. His lips brushed over hers, just barely touching, just enough for their breath to mingle enough for every sigh of hers to become one with his. Every movement was perfect, every brush of her hand over his skin, every light little tug he gave to her blonde curls as he tangled his fingers in it. He buried his face against the crook of her neck as he felt himself drawing closer to that edge.

Her legs tightened around him as her hips rocked back to meet his rhythm, and she grazed her fingernails lightly down the back of his neck. She cried out, and he felt her entire body clench around his, and it urged him on, until he too, was over the edge.

"Emma," he breathed again, over and over again, the only thing he could possibly think to say right now, the only thing that mattered. He pressed kisses along her neck, her collarbone, along her jawline and finally found her lips again.

She smiled softly then, fingers brushing lazily through his hair, neither of them making any moves to be anywhere else. Not right now.

This was it, this was all that mattered. Not the past, not the future, not any of it. Only this, just as she had said. This was all that needed to be, and it would be.

At least for today.


	8. A Seal Upon My Heart

**A/N: **I hope you enjoy this one. It's the beginning of the second part of this fic, which will consist of the next seven or eight chapters. This is the calm before the storm, but as you can see ... it's not all going to stay pretty for long. It's definitely rated M, so you know, if you don't want to read that sort of thing ... don't? Otherwise ... enjoy. And I hope you're ready for a bumpy ride.__

_**Eight  
**_**A Seal Upon My Heart ...**

_Don't entreat me to leave you, and to return from following after you, for where you go, I will go; and where you lodge, I will lodge._

_Ruth 1:16_

"You said we could _trust _him."

The door to Cora Mills' office had scarcely shut behind the whirlpool of fire and anger that was Regina, before the words had left her daughter's mouth. "You said he owed you, that there was no way he could refuse to help, that there was no way he could work against us." Regina crossed the room purposefully, all but slamming the manila envelope down on the desk in front of her mother, her mouth a thin, angry line, her eyes snapping darkly. "This does not look like _help _to me, Mother."

Cora didn't say anything, choosing instead to pick up the envelope and open it, slowly perusing its contents. She could tell that Regina was getting more and more agitated by the second, but her daughter's ire would just have to wait as she tried to piece together what it was she was seeing now.

"How long have you had this?" she finally said, raising her head to look at Regina then, as though she thought Regina had been holding onto the papers for some time now. It wasn't a forgery, of that she was certain, but what she was seeing made no sense to her.

"It arrived via courier this morning," Regina said, her tone almost scathing. "I had to keep it from Neal, since you've insisted he be oblivious to this until it's done. I came straight here after reading it ... we can't use this in our case, Mother." She slammed her hand down on the papers once more. "It all but extols the virtues of Ms. Swan. According to his report, she is a _bastion _of wonderful motherhood." She sighed heavily. "It's exactly the reason we wanted Ms. French removed from this case."

"I am well aware," Cora told her, her brow furrowed. She still couldn't make heads or tails of what she was seeing. There was no legitimate reason for any of this; they had had a _deal_. People didn't just break deals with Cora Mills, especially not people who owed her the way Killian Jones did.

"I was against this from the start, need I remind you?" Regina went on. "I told you there was no way a priest was going to be able to help us, but you insisted. This one is different, you said. This one owes you." She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "I'm not seeing any of that so-called gratitude here." Her expression changed then. "Now that I think of it ... there was something odd about the way they behaved around each other that day I dropped Henry off with her." She looked up, arching a brow at Cora. "It was as if they knew each other. She _certainly _wasn't happy to see him there."

Cora had already picked up her phone, barely giving her daughter's words any heed at the moment. She dialed the number, her frown deepening when it went straight to voicemail. With a heavy sigh, she ended the call, immediately dialing again, this time, calling the rectory.

"Hello, Father O'Malley," she said cordially into the phone when the man answered on the other end. "This is Judge Mills. I was wondering if Father Jones was available? I can't seem to reach him on his phone."

"Actually, no, ma'am, I'm sorry. Nobody's seen him today," the priest said apologetically. "Not like him to be gone so long, but he's been quite busy with some of his work lately."

"Oh, to be sure," Cora said, tapping her fingers against her desk, her lips pursed thoughtfully.

"I'd be more than happy to take a message, Your Honor," Father O'Malley continued.

"No, no, that won't be necessary, Father," Cora said. "Thank you for your time."

"No trouble at all, ma'am."

Cora hit the button on her phone, her brow creased then. "Nowhere to be found ... the rectory doesn't even know where he is ... there's something going on. In all these years, he's _never _strayed far from them."

Regina sighed heavily, picking up the papers of the report. "This is the answer, right here, Mother," she said contemptuously. "Have you even been listening to a word I said? They _know _each other ... they knew each other before you put him on the case."

Cora's eyebrow shot up then. "Are you implying ... ?"

Regina looked slightly taken aback by that. "What?" she said incredulously. "No, Mother, he's a _priest_. I was simply saying ... "

Cora cut her off, holding up her hand. "He wasn't always a priest, and I think you know it as well as I do, that it was not the Call from God that drove him to seek sanctuary with the Church."

"So you _honestly _think he's ... With her?"

Cora shrugged. "I do not deign to know the details or the inner workings of the man's mind," she said scornfully. "But it would explain all of this ... " She sighed, shaking her head. "I told you before, Regina ... he's a useful ally to have."

"But what if he's not _our _ally?" Regina asked slowly. "Do we expose him?" Her eyebrow raised. "I mean, if it is as you say ... an affair with a clergyman doesn't exactly earn Ms. Swan very high marks on the moral and ethical scale, now does it?"

"And that's where the problem lies," Cora said, shaking her head, knowing that Regina was getting ahead of herself. "Without proof of anything, it's merely conjecture and speculation. No, exposing them won't do it, Regina."

"But you know something that will."

"Don't I always?" Cora said simply. "It's simple. Ms. Swan doesn't do so well when she hits rock bottom. Neither does Father Jones. Right now, I think they're both making a good show of keeping their heads above water. It won't take much, it never does."

She sat back in her chair then, musing. She honestly didn't know if there was any credence to what Regina said, or if it was just her daughter's somewhat overactive imagination, creating something out of nothing. It wouldn't be the first time Regina had done something foolish like that. She reached for the file, eyes skimming over the words in the report.

Well. To call it a _glowing_ review of Ms. Swan and her capabilities as a mother would not be saying too much, that was for sure. "He does speak quite highly of her, doesn't he?" she murmured, mostly to herself. She set the file down, reaching for her phone once more. She dialed once again, knowing full well it would go to voicemail, actually banking on it.

As soon as she heard the tone, she made sure the smile could be heard in her voice. This wasn't about threatening ... not really. After all, she wasn't even sure there was anything to be concerned with just yet. However, this message, and his reaction to it, when he returned her call - and he _would _- would tell her _everything _she needed to know about the situation at hand.

"Hello, Father. Can't seem to reach you, but I wanted to let you know that my daughter and I received your _wonderful _report this morning." She lowered her voice then. "I'm not exactly sure where the deal we had fell through, or what it is that you're trying to prove here, all of a sudden, but all I can say is this - your choices have consquences. I do hope you've made the right ones." She hung up then, casting a look to Regina. "I'm _starving_. Shall we have lunch?"

oXo

"Shouldn't you answer that?" Emma asked with a small laugh, hearing Killian's cell phone go off for about the fortieth time since he'd arrived at her door that morning.

It had barely been dawn when he'd shown up at her apartment - wild-eyed and almost frenzied as he'd come to her, _finally _- and now it was after five in the evening, and the whole day had been spent ... like this. It had been nearly three when they'd finally made it to the bed, not that they had _needed _a bed, but there was something about having him here, with her, that felt _achingly _right.

That was usually the first sign that something was wrong. But Emma wasn't thinking about that today. Today was about them. Right or wrong, forever or just for these twenty-four hours ... it didn't matter. Right now, only this mattered. Right now, there was no past or future, there was just the present, and who they were before, and who they were going to be, was irrelevant.

"I thought the bloody battery would have died by now," Killian mumbled, making no move to get out of her bed, no effort to remove his arms from around her, no attempt to stop brushing his lips over _that spot _on her neck.

"Killian!" she gasped, groaning a little as she let her eyes fall closed. "I guess that's a no then, huh?"

"What were we talking about?" he muttered against her neck, teeth grazing over her flesh, sending little frissons of desire down her spine.

"We were talking?" Emma breathed out, taking his face in her hands, the stubble from his jaw - he really hadn't shaved in at least a day - tickling at her palm as she pulled his lips to hers, kissing him hungrily, as though she hadn't already had him over and over again today.

They should both be weary, they should maybe be feeling a lot worse about things than they were, but it was hard to worry about your immortal soul, when the closest thing she'd ever had to perfection was in her arms, kissing her back with the same fervor, the same need that she felt for him.

"We can talk if you want," he rasped against her lips, his fingers tangling in her long hair as he trailed his mouth along her jawline.

She sighed, her head falling back as he continued to leave hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat. "N-no," she hissed out. "I don't feel like talking right now."

He raised his head then, his eyes meeting hers, a smirk playing on his lips. The smirk didn't belong on the priest, but he wasn't Father Jones today. Today he was Killian, and maybe he _was _the pirate from her dreams. It certainly didn't seem so far-fetched, when he looked at her that way, his eyes burning like blue flame, full of heat for her. All she knew that was that, at least for today, he didn't belong to God, he belonged to _her_.

"And what is it," he asked her, his voice low, lips brushing over the shell of her ear, as he slid his hand down her abdomen, to the juncture of her thighs, "that you _feel _like doing, hm, Emma?"

After the initial shock of that first breathless, almost dreamlike, time had worn off ... there had been a few moments of worry, on both their parts, that they'd made a mistake. Emma had been terrified that she'd dreamed the whole thing, or worse, that she _hadn't_ - but that he was going to get up and leave anyway. But then he'd looked at her, and he'd started to speak, as though he were going to apologize, and she'd known that it was now or never - she _had _no regrets, she'd wanted him almost since the first time she'd met him, and she would _not _feel bad about it. And she wasn't going to let him feel guilty about it, either. Not when they both wanted it. She had moved in on him, kissing him, fingers tangled in his hair, til neither of them could remember what it was they'd been so worried about in the first place.

After that, the rest had been simple to figure out. It might not be the right thing to do, and maybe later the regrets and the "oh shit" moments would happen ... but right now was not that time.

Emma swallowed thickly, trying her damndest not to buck her hips against his hand. One thing she'd learned about him today - he'd give and he'd give and he'd _give_, and he'd have her quivering and all but begging for it, but on _his _terms. If he thought she was getting a little too greedy, he'd stop, and he'd torture her, drag it out, just that little bit more ... It was a move she could respect, because she was damn good at giving as good as she got, and _he'd_ learned that about _her_, as well.

"_Emma _... " he prompted then, his breath still hot against her ear, his fingers parting her slick folds, seeking out that most sensitive of spots. "Tell me ... "

She gritted her teeth, not wanting to give in so easily, not wanting him to have this insane power over her that no one else had even come close to possessing. "I don't want to," she retorted breathlessly. "Figure it out."

He chuckled darkly, she sound reverberating through her entire body as his fingers slid along her once more. "I'll stop," he whispered, nipping at her earlobe, before trailing his lips back to her throat. His free hand pulled her flush against him, her back against his torso, before sliding up to cup one of her breasts. "Do you want me to stop?"

_Fuck_. Damn, he was good. Ten years as a priest certainly hadn't taken the shine off of this one. "No," she breathed out then, turning her head to catch his lips with her own. He kissed her like he was a man who couldn't breathe, and she was his oxygen.

"Good," he said lowly against her lips, smirking a bit. His fingers moved faster against her then, thumb pressing against her clit as he slid one finger, then two, inside her, curling them just right.

Emma gasped, unable then to keep from arching back against him. "_Killian_," she groaned out, hand curling around the back of his neck, keeping him close.

"_Emma_," he growled lowly against her ear. His fingers moved faster, more insistently, keeping up that steady rhythm against her sweet spot, his thumb rubbing small circles over that little bundle of nerves, sure to send her right over the edge. "Come for me, Emma." The growl in his voice was almost feral now, and it sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. She could feel her stomach clenching, could feel the beginning flutters, and she moaned, unable to keep quiet.

"Oh, God," she gasped then, feeling her inner muscles begin to pulse around his fingers. Her eyes fell closed and her head fell back against his shoulder as her release hit, washing over her like an ocean wave. "Killian!"

"Aye," he breathed, breath still hot by her ear, "that's a good lass." He moved his free hand to her face, turning her again to kiss him once more. Emma sank into the kiss, turning in his arms, feeling an acute sense of loss when his fingers slid away from her as she did, but wanting to kiss him more fully, wanting to _look _at him. He pushed a bit of hair behind her ear as he kissed her, his own breathing uneven and ragged - Emma was amused and endeared to learn that getting her off was just as good for him as it was for her. Not that it didn't work both ways. He made the most _amazing _sounds when she ...

"God, you're beautiful, Emma. Bloody fucking gorgeous. If you knew how long I've wanted to do just that ... God, Emma, you would've kicked me out of here a long time ago."

Emma smiled softly against his lips. "Has the Father had unclean thoughts?" she teased lightly.

Killian groaned, closing his eyes as he kissed her again. "You've no idea, lass," he laughed breathlessly then. He settled back down amidst the pillows on her bed, pulling her to his side, tracing the line of her collarbone with his fingertips.

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," Emma told him softly, looking up at him from where her head rested against the crook of his shoulder, "I haven't exactly been pure in my line of thinking where you're concerned either."

They lie there, silent, for several moments. Emma was soothed by the steady thump of his heart under her hand, the way they seemed to breathe in tandem, as though they were always meant to be breathing together, just like this.

"Emma," Killian started then, and Emma's eyes flickered to his face, not sure she liked the tone in his voice, or what it heralded.

"Shh," she said, moving her hand up, brushing her fingers over his lips. "I know. We need to talk about this. About ... all of it. I know that." She moved then, sitting up and looking down at him, her hair falling over her shoulder in a messy blonde waterfall of waves. "But not today."

"Not today ... " He eyed her, his brow furrowing as he looked up at her, his fingers reaching out to play with her hair.

Emma shook her head, biting her lip as she looked down at him. "Maybe it's too much to ask ... but I think we've both damn well earned today, don't you?"

"Emma ... "

She shook her head, leaning forward then, pressing her lips against his. "I just want you to stay ... everything that needs to be dealt with will still be waiting for us in the morning."

She was afraid he would pull away, afraid he'd push her aside and leave, like so many other people in the past had done. Instead, he tightened his fingers in her hair, pulling her down closer so he could kiss her more thoroughly. "I couldn't say no to you if I tried, my love," he breathed out raggedly against her lips, before slanting his mouth down over hers again.

Emma felt her heartbeat quicken, not sure if he'd meant to say that, or if it had merely been one of those "in the moment" sort of things, and deciding that, for now, it really didn't matter. She deepened their kiss, her tongue sliding out over his bottom lip - she loved the way he tasted, loved everything about the way he made her feel. Even when she was _angry _with him ... it made her feel more alive than she'd felt in a very long time. It was like she'd been under some sort of spell, and he'd come into her life, and woken her from it.

Even she knew how fanciful and stupid that sounded, but she couldn't find it in herself to care. His hands were sliding down her sides then, thumbs brushing lightly along the undersides of her breasts. He breathed out her name, as he pulled her closer to him. "You have bewitched me, Emma Swan," he murmured against her lips, smiling at her a little as he let his lips brush over hers still.

"Is that a compliment?" she whispered with a grin.

"Aye," he whispered back, his expression serious, his hands still roaming along her sides, over her curves. "I've no right to even be touching one so lovely as you ... "

"Don't stop," she breathed, leaning forward again, her hands moving to his shoulders, pushing him fully onto his back then. "I don't want you to stop." She moved over him then, legs straddling his hips, but keeping her hips above his, not touching just yet.

He inhaled sharply, looking up at her. "God."

Emma shook her head, hands resting on his chest. "Just Emma," she whispered with a smirk, as she slowly lowered herself onto him. "Do you want me to stop, Killian?"

"No," he breathed out, his eyes raking over her form hungrily. "Don't you dare."

Emma arched a brow at him, lowering herself onto him completely then, a soft gasp escaping her at the sensation of him filling her, so completely. "What happens if I _dare_," she began rocking her hips then, "stop?"

"Emma!" he gasped out. "Bloody fucking hell, don't you _dare _fucking stop."

His words, the desperate longing with which he spoke now, the way he was looking at her, all worked to ignite a fire in her like nothing she'd ever known. There was something about knowing that it was only for her, that he burned for her the same way she burned for him, that only _she _would ever know him like this, from here on out.

She didn't know much else about what the future might have in store - but she knew that much, somehow.

His hands dragged down her sides, fingers digging into the skin at her hips as he met her movements with his own upward thrusts. She sat up straighter, rocking against him with more urgency now, wanting every inch, wanting to surround him and engulf him and somehow, somehow make him hers forever.

If only she could.

But she knew that the morning would come, and with it, the real world, and all the things that conspired to keep them from each other. A world that believed that something as simple and as beautiful as what they had found here, with each other, was wrong. She wanted to prove them _all _wrong, and she would. She damn well would if it was the last thing she ever did.

But morning was not now, and now was all they had.

His hands roamed over every inch of her flesh that he could reach, and he moved, in one swift motion, so he was sitting, her astride his lap, and he was still inside her, but they were so close now, their breaths seemed to be one. He kissed her, and trailed his lips down the column of her throat, along her collarbone, he lowered his head and wrapped his lips around one of her nipples, his tongue flicking out over the taut little bud, before moving to the other one, lavishing it with the same attention.

Emma gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair, tugging at it gently as his hands moved to cup her backside, pulling her tighter against him, pushing himself just that much deeper inside her, until she swore there was no way to tell where she stopped and he began. It was together, this time, when they came apart, there in each other's arms, collapsing in a breathless heap of tangled limbs.

They made no attempt at further movement after that, neither one making a sound, no words needing to be said. He kissed her forehead as they drifted off to sleep, though both of them knew they wouldn't sleep for long, before they'd be waking one another again, fervent with their need in this, what might be their only night.

And still, when she woke the next morning, and he was just waking and dressing and getting ready to leave her, she still believed it would all be okay. She pulled him to her and kissed him again, as if this were just goodbye for the day, as if they'd see each other again soon, because she knew that they would, and she wasn't afraid.

Because it would all work out.

Somehow.


End file.
